


How Do We Say We're Brave Now?

by callmejude, Florentium



Series: Summer Offerings [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Affection, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Anxiety, Biting, Blow Jobs, Brotherly Affection, Canon-Typical Homophobia, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dirty Talk, Drinking to Cope, Emotional Sex, Euron Greyjoy is His Own Warning, Family Angst, Family Issues, Fear of Death, Goodbyes, Hand Jobs, Heartbreak, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Isolation, Light Dom/sub, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Murder Kink, Possessive Behavior, Protectiveness, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Reunions, Rough Sex, Subspace, Switching, Tenderness, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Violent Thoughts, Wall Sex, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-06-09
Packaged: 2019-12-26 04:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 100,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18275795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmejude/pseuds/callmejude, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florentium/pseuds/Florentium
Summary: News from the Iron Islands throws Winterfell into upheaval





	1. Theon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISED I'D BE BACK. Sorry this one took so long it... ended up a lot longer than I originally planned lmao. So much longer that my lovely and talented girlfriend definitely did more help than usual on this one, so I couldn't in good faith say it was just me who wrote it.

Jon looks so much less grim, when he’s asleep. Usually, the little bastard is the fucking spitting image of his lord father, stern northern impassivity, harsh and cold like the lands he hails from, but not when he’s curled up against Theon’s side or grinning up at him like a new bride. Nor when they’re fucking. Jon looks ethereal when they’re fucking. The way his eyes glaze over and his precious brow furrows in shock and want and how he bites his lips bright red. All that cold, northern severity melts away, softens and warms like a blossom, ripens like a fruit. Theon has had plenty of bedmates, and he has left them all sated, but none that respond to him so _intensely_ as Jon does.

He’d say it’s because Jon is such a maid, inexperienced and unruly, but Theon’s taken the virtue of plenty of girls and several boys, and none of them had looked at him the way Jon does, afterwards. And at any rate, Jon’s no maid any longer. Not for some time, and certainly not after what they did in the brothel. But even then, splayed out for a talent such as Ros, Jon had begged for Theon by name.

Looking at Jon now, sleeping against Theon’s side, he wonders if he’ll be able to squirm out of his hold without waking him.

Not for the first time, Theon wishes he didn’t have to.

They haven’t slept through the night in the same bed since they had boarded overnight at the inn when the Riverlanders were at Winterfell. It’s been several months now, since then. And there had also been their one night at the brothel, some time before that. The inn had been easy, just the two of them, outsiders to the Starks, forced out of the castle for highborn guests. No one had looked twice, then. And with the brothel, as much as whores gossip, Ros had made sure the talk of them had included her entirely. Lady Catelyn would not need much encouragement to try and dispose of her husband’s bastard after discovering him for a deviant. Theon’s not certain how the Faith decides these things in the south, but somehow, the inclusion of a woman between them reduces the perversion, in their eyes.

Theon frowns at the thought. He had boasted to Jon once that he would call for the whole Iron Fleet to keep Lady Catelyn from sending him away, but such grand declarations don’t account for much while Theon is here in Winterfell. His house’s ships are hundreds of miles from here. Quietly, Theon scoffs to himself for his silly promise. A raven to his father pleading to protect his captor’s bastard would not be returned.

Next to him, Jon shuffles in his sleep with a quiet huff. Theon hopes Jon isn’t dreaming of anything that frightens him. Theon is not as skilled at comfort, like Jon is. If Jon were to wake now from a nightmare, Theon doubts he could come up with anything better than trying to distract him by touching his cock.

Not that he doesn’t think that would work.

Pulling out of Jon’s grip, Theon wriggles off Jon’s bed, his bare feet reaching the chilly floor. Before leaving, he bundles Jon tight in his furs. Jon hums softly in his sleep, and Theon bends and presses a kiss to his forehead. 

“Sleep well, Snow,” he whispers into his hair, creeping back to his own room by the light of the torches that line the corridor.

It’s always difficult to fall asleep, on the nights he stays in Jon’s chambers. His bed always feels cold, after lying beside him. The bastard’s blood runs so warm, Theon wouldn’t need furs if he could ever stay with him through the night again.

Lying in his own bed, staring at the beams in the ceiling, Theon remembers their night in the brothel, after Ros had collected her coin, the way Jon had twisted up in his arms overnight, like he couldn’t get close enough. He slept so soundly into the morning that Theon was sure Ros would come in to throw them out before he’d ever wake. When Jon finally did lift his head, hair wild and eyes sleep-haggard, Theon huffed and teased him as he helped him dress. But in the moments before, when the sun first crept in through the blue muslin drapes and touched Jon’s sleeping face, Theon had only gazed at him in silence.

The inn had been different. Theon had tried to act the same, but he’d not hidden it as well. Waking Jon by pressing kisses into his temple and down his throat. They had no one come to retrieve them, then. No one to be ready for. Foolishly, perhaps, Theon had let himself indulge, let himself grow accustomed to something he knew he could not have. 

After that first night, after the things they said to each other, Theon had let himself indulge, let himself watch Jon sleep, let himself be selfish.

Staying at the inn has changed something in the both of them, it’s plain to see now. Jon is no longer too shy to ask Theon’s company at nightfall often, and Theon, always too foolish to deny him, still finds himself at Jon’s door after the castle has fallen asleep on the nights he hasn’t asked. Theon had never meant for this — to long for Jon’s company as much as Jon does his — but he’s lost to it now. He has never been good at denying himself what he wants. And he does want. Jon’s warmth, and the soft little sounds he makes as he struggles to get comfortable. His quiet snore, and the way his sleeping face looks in the dying candlelight of his bedchamber.

Jon is beautiful, when he sleeps.

In the morning, after dressing, Theon sits on one side of Robb and Jon sits the other, and they don’t spare each other more than a glance as they both vy for the heir’s attention over breakfast. 

The two of them have become experts at this, pretending not to notice each other in the light of day, when surrounded by the Starks, by the castle household. When this silly affair had started, Theon at the very least acted as if it were easy to ignore him. 

After what they’d shared at the inn, however, Theon’s not so sure it’s as believable as it once was, even to Jon. 

Before, Jon had often been too shy to approach Theon on his own, but now, he takes chances he never had before. 

One afternoon when the boys are released from their lessons, Robb gets tangled into an argument between the young Arya and Bran. Where before Jon may have stayed behind to listen to the squabble — perhaps even involve himself — he takes the chance now to shove Theon around a secluded corner of the castle yard to kiss him soundly.

Theon means to scold him for such stupidity, but the ridiculous danger of it only thrills him. Jon makes him feel more wanted than anyone else he’s ever laid with. He often wonders if he’ll ever grow tired of such unabashed affection, but with the way Jon looks at him, he can never imagine that he would.

“Theon,” whispers Jon, voice always so soft and pleading when they lay together at night, “touch me. Please?”

Sometimes, Theon is resolute. Sometimes he scolds Jon for being a coy little harlot and insists, smirking, that he go to sleep or Theon will leave him alone. Sometimes he has the strength to keep such promises, enough that Jon will pout and lay his head down and fall asleep. But other times, it is impossible to deny him. Sometimes Jon’s tender hands on Theon’s jaw will cause his head to spin, the sweet begging voice in his ear turning his blood hot. Sometimes, more often than Theon would like to admit, Jon gets everything he asks for. Those times get more and more frequent as time goes on.

When did Theon become such a fool?

Perhaps he’d always been one, he muses to himself one morning. Robb and Jon are practicing their swordsmanship and Theon has failed to nock his arrow for the third time in a row watching Jon parry Robb’s blows.

“Greyjoy!” Ser Rodrik Cassel bellows, reaching over to cuff the side of Theon’s head with about as much affection as a shadowcat has for a fawn. “Get your head out of your ass! I’ll keep you until nightfall if I must.”

Sheepishly, Theon grins at him. Robb, from where he’s standing with Jon, cackles enough to disrupt his rhythm, and Jon thrusts the end of his waster in his face.

“Why are you laughing, Stark?” Jon says with a laugh of his own, “You’re doing no better than Greyjoy is today.”

Huffing with mock indignation, Robb knocks Jon gently in the knee with his own waster, and giggles when he nearly falls.

“Are you all men grown or boys?” Cassel snaps haughtily. “The three of you are no better than squalling babes this morning. Do your drills as you ought, not as a bunch of children swinging sticks.”

Robb and Jon both look guiltily at their feet. Theon rolls his eyes, and Cassel cuffs him again.

“You’re the worst of them, Greyjoy,” he says, waggling his finger in his face. “You’ve not even nocked an arrow properly, yet, let alone fire one.”

Grumbling, Theon focuses enough to nock and draw the arrow, but Cassel is unsatisfied at his stance and makes him try again. By the time Theon hits the center of the target, it’s nowhere near with the practiced ease he usually manages. Though it is at least on his first attempt for the morning, and Cassel quiets down well enough.

Still, Theon’s more interested in Robb and Jon’s practice than his own. He always likes to watch Jon spar. Even before, he loved to watch him spar with Robb. They’ve always gotten on best of any of Lord Stark’s children, and it shows when they practice on each other. The ease with which Robb parries Jon’s blows, the careful way Jon watches Robb for openings. It reminds Theon of the way players in town would portray battle on stage — flowing and graceful. More a dance than actual battle.

“Greyjoy!” Cassel snaps, and Theon jumps, shaking the thoughts from his head to nock a second arrow.

“Aye,” Theon mutters to himself, firing. It lands so close to the first arrow that its fletchings twitch in the wind. “Calm down, Ser Cassel, there’s no war on.”

Even if there were, Theon doubts he’d be trusted to fight alongside the Starks and their bannermen. He’s skilled enough with a bow that even Lord Stark remarks on his talent with pride, but Theon wonders if that means they’d let him fire at enemies, were someone to siege the castle. Or perhaps he’d not be permitted a weapon, instead be in charge of guarding the women and children.

Theon grimaces, remembering the various times Lady Catelyn has learned of his indecencies with women in the castle. He doubts she’d allow even that.

“Spend too long at the tavern last night, Greyjoy? Is your brain still pickled?”

“No,” Theon huffs petulantly, picking another arrow off the ground. “Just growing bored, is all.”

“ _Bored,_ ” Cassel repeats with a sigh. “Gods be good, Greyjoy, what is it that you’d rather be doing, then?”

Theon doesn’t answer, but his laugh is knowing enough to make Cassel grumble. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Jon’s perry slip.

They’re out in the afternoon sun for nearly an hour before the old maester shuffles into view, his heavy chain jangling about his neck as he makes his way through the slushing mud. Theon’s focused enough now that he barely spares the maester a glance, content to go back to practice until he notices the maester’s eyes are pinned to him.

Lowering his bow, Theon turns to face him. Maester Luwin’s expression is solemn. 

“Lord Greyjoy…”

The old man has never sounded quite so forlorn to Theon, and that frightens him. The only one in this castle who is tender with him is Jon. Northmen, like the ironborn, are not a tender people, and they understand Theon would reject such treatment even more than they would. Maester Luwin knows this just as anyone, but his face is gentle, nonetheless. 

Theon’s heart thumps in dread, and he tilts his head, taking a steadying breath through his teeth. “Yes, maester? What — what is it?”

“Lord Stark has called on me to summon you, Lord Greyjoy. Please, follow me, lad.”

The bow clatters from Theon’s hands to the muddy ground at his feet. Maester Luwin watches it fall, but says nothing. Theon hears Robb’s voice, curious, beside him, but he can’t understand what it is the little lordling asks. 

Whatever it is, Maester Luwin responds, but Theon can’t hear him either, for the roaring in his ears. This news is nothing light. Theon turns, unable to help himself, and his eyes find Jon, standing some feet away with his practice sword dragging on the ground. He pales, when his eyes meet Theon’s.

Maester Luwin would not be here with such a mild request if it had come to light what the two of them have done. But that doesn’t ease Theon’s worries. The old man’s look is so dire, so foreboding. There are so many things that could be amiss. 

The walk through the castle halls is longer than usual. Cold. Theon keeps his eyes on his feet and tries not to think. He continues to remind himself that Maester Luwin would not regard him so gently if he were to learn of Theon’s debauchery with the lord’s bastard, but then why else is he being called alone to see to him? Often, castlefolk will come to collect him as Lord Stark asked so that he can do some pageboy duty. It isn’t the first time the old maester himself has done such a thing. But the air of him was different, now. He seems to hold a grave secret. A secret about Theon.

As they walk together through the halls to Lord Stark’s solar, Theon wonders if he’s walking to his death. Perhaps the maester has discovered what he and Jon have done after all. Mayhaps he only feels sorry for Theon, so near to his last days on this earth.

He hasn’t looked up from his feet, and when the maester stops walking, Theon nearly trips over him. He looks up to apologize, but the old man only waves away his remorse with a tragic smile as he knocks on Lord Stark’s heavy door. It’s open, but Lord Stark has his head down as they arrive, absorbed in the papers on his desk. When Lord Stark looks up, his eyes find Theon in an instant.

“Come inside, lad,” Lord Stark tells him. His face is grim, but not angry. He looks alarmingly like Jon, that way. “There’s been a raven. Come and sit.”

Theon glances back at Maester Luwin, but the old man only gives him a warm pat on the shoulder and leaves Lord Stark’s solar, dragging the heavy door shut behind him. And now, Theon is alone with Lord Eddard Stark, and that has never brought him peace.

“My — my lord, forgive me.” Theon’s throat feels as if he’s swallowed lye. His mind reels, trying to pinpoint what all of this could possibly be about. “This — is everything alright?”

Lord Stark shakes his head, solemn and quiet. “Sit down, lad, you’re not in any trouble.”

It only makes it worse, hearing that. Theon drops into the chair that’s pulled up in front of Lord Stark. But he remains standing, towering over Theon as he once had back in Pyke when he was just a boy.

The memory jars him, and a split second before Lord Stark speaks, it occurs to Theon why he’s here.

“Theon, your father is dead.”

As a child, Theon had pictured this moment so many times, a thousand different ways. He’d often wondered if he’d feel more grief at the loss of his father or joy at the safety of home. It had been more than ten years since he’d seen his father, and Theon would never proclaim to have been close to him, but as a boy, he had wanted so badly to win his approval. To earn a kind word or a look of recognition. Sometimes he dreamed of it, being sent back at his father’s death, only to learn that he in fact hadn’t died at all. He’d not had that dream in many years. But rather than any of that, what he feels at Lord Stark’s words is bile rising in his throat.

“I —”

His voice is tight and quiet, unseemly for an ironborn lord. Theon drops his gaze for a moment, and Lord Stark’s hand rests on his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry, Lord Greyjoy. It came quite unexpectedly.”

He’d called him Theon, a mere moment ago. The fragile tension of their relationship had slipped, just a little. It had been a comfort, however minimal. Theon wishes, shamefully, that Lord Stark would pull him close.

“There’s more to this news, I’m afraid,” Lord Stark says then, and Theon lifts his head. “I know that you must be grieved at the loss of your lord father, but there’s further matters to discuss.”

Lord Stark must mean his leaving. He’s leaving. It overwhelms him so immediately Theon isn’t sure what it is he even feels at the realization. He’d expected more excitement, more thrill, but his shoulders feel heavy. He’s not ready, he understands suddenly, to be a lord.

“My — my lord, I don’t —”

“Your father was murdered. It was your uncle, Lord Euron, who slew him.”

His uncle’s name sends a chill down his spine and his mouth snaps shut. Abruptly, he stands, but his knees are weak, and he drops back into the chair with a gasp. He’d not heard that name in years, not since Theon had left the Iron Islands. His father never spoke of him when he wasn’t in the castle, and his mother and siblings had always ignored Theon’s cries at night. He remembers when he was barely five-and-ten, receiving the raven with the terse news of Euron’s banishment from the Islands. There had been such relief then, knowing he would not have to deal with his uncle upon his return home.

The joy of it had been so fragile that learning it’s no longer true causes a wall in Theon’s chest to crack apart, and his breath comes out a soft, shuddering sound. “My uncle? He — he’s returned?”

Lord Stark looks at him with such gentle condolence.

For a moment, Theon is overcome with the urge to tell Lord Stark everything he’d kept hidden about his Uncle Euron. Lord Stark, he thinks, would believe him, would understand. Perhaps Lord Stark would embrace him, then. But the thought is short-lived, and vanishes as Lord Stark wordlessly hands him the parchment he’d taken off the raven.

 _I’ve sent every opposer to their deaths,_ reads the scrawl in Euron’s handwriting, _and have unchained the Iron Islands from the fetters of the mainlands once again. I’ll not finish the killing and the raiding until the Iron Fleet has smashed and plundered every greenlander loyalist and sent them to rot at the bottom of the sea with only the Drowned God to keep them company. Oppose me, and I shall make an anchor of your king’s Iron Throne._ At the bottom of the scroll, Theon sees words that turn his blood cold. _I’ll be coming for you, little Theon._

The nickname feels like a blade against his throat, and for a blind instant, Theon cannot breathe. _“Open wide, little Theon. If you can’t fit me inside that mouth of yours, I’ll knock the teeth from your head until you can.”_

Sweat is cold, along the back of Theon’s neck.

“I apologize, I understand this may be overwhelming,” continues Lord Stark, “but it is not safe for you to return to the Iron Islands, Lord Greyjoy. Several of the ironborn houses have joined forces with your uncle in rebelling against the throne, and… as it stands, it’s not safe for you here, either.”

“Rebelled? My uncle has—”

“He has declared the Iron Islands sovereign, forsaken all vows and fealty to the throne.” 

Panic strangles him. It’s shameful, to beg for one’s life. The ironborn are told to prefer being flayed alive to pleading at the end of a sword. 

But Theon feels little more than a child now, alone, far from home, and surrounded by enemies, and he begs. “Lord Stark, please —” 

“I’ve sent word to the capital, addressed to King Robert himself, this morning,” Lord Stark interrupts before Theon can debase himself. “The oath of fealty sworn by your father cannot rightly be extended to his kin. Certainly not to kinslayers, least of all. I’ve no counsel of how to react to your uncle’s rebellion in regards to your liberty.”

Humiliated, Theon hiccups against the sob caught in his throat, scrambling to maintain his composure. It is not quite a relief. He’s not sure what will become of him then, if he’s not safe anywhere he stands. 

Distantly, he wishes Jon were here.

“I hope you understand,” Lord Stark tells him gently, “that until I receive word from the king, the safest — the wisest — place for you now is the dungeons, under guard.”

Dimly, Theon nods. Words are caught hard and sharp inside him, tugging at his throat. _Help me,_ he wants to beg. _Please, help me._

“I — Lord Stark…”

Lord Stark waits patiently for him to speak, but he has nothing to say. Foolishly, Theon wants to admit he’s frightened. That he’s never felt so helpless. 

He closes his eyes and hopes, just for a moment, that it’s all some terrible dream.

“The guards will take you to collect your things,” Lord Stark says finally, his voice low but gentle. “They will not deny you anything you may need. Just ask, it will be provided.” 

It startles him, when Lord Stark gently pats his hair. It’s brief, only for a moment, but honest and open, and Theon feels his throat pull tight. He flinches, when he hears the hinges of the door swing open. He expects it to be slammed open against the stone wall, but it only creaks gently. Theon turns to see men in their guard armor, grey and white cloaks pinned to them with fierce-looking iron direwolves. 

He knows these men. Jory and Wayn and Alyn. They play cards with him some nights, when the Starks aren’t in need of their attention. Wayn and Alyn have both gone to the inn to drink with him more than once. They’ve never regarded him this way, with such grim, stern faces. Even when he’d get into trouble, Jory only ever reacted with a sort of wry exasperation. Now, he looks every bit a Stark guard. Firm and cold. Distant, like the rest of this wretched country.

Jory gestures to him. “Come along, lad.” 

His voice is softer than the expression on his face, but it does nothing to put Theon at ease. He looks back at Lord Stark, but finds no respite there. 

When he turns to Jory again, his hand is outstretched, beckoning him out. 

“We’ll take you to your room,” says Jory after Theon doesn’t respond, “to gather up your things. We’ll see to you. You’ll not want for much, down there.”

Theon doubts that.

It’s a quiet walk to his chambers. Stiff. Theon doesn’t look at any of them as he follows between Alyn and Wayn, Jory leading them, as if Theon needs the guidance. 

He does now, Theon reminds himself. He’s not a ward any longer. As of today, he is a prisoner. A hostage of war.

When Jory swings his door open, his room is as he left it, but it already feels different. He hadn’t bothered to straighten the wolf pelts when he woke this morning, and they sit bunched in the corner of his featherbed. Theon stares at it a moment, wishing he could crawl into it and fall asleep.

“Lord Greyjoy,” Alyn whispers, “is there not anything you’d like to bring down with you?”

“Right,” Theon says softly, mostly to himself. He doesn’t quite know where to start.

There’s a few books stacked on the floor beside his bed that he’s been leafing through. He bends down to pick them up. The small book of Valyrian poetry Maester Luwin gifted him some nameday long past. A book of Northern histories he’d nicked from Robb’s room a few days back to study for his lessons. He takes the both of them in his arms. At the bottom of the stack is a book he’d bought off a merchant at the start of summer. A history of the Iron Islands, and the lineage of House Greyjoy. Theon’s eyes burn, and he leaves it on the floor.

Pressing his chosen books close to his chest, Theon walks to his wardrobe and rips it open, absently tugging down his clothes by the handfuls. Normally, he cares deeply for how well he’s dressed, but he’ll have no need to impress anyone, behind bars.

“Here, lad,” Jory tells him, coming to him and holding out his hands, “I’ll take all this. Do you need anything else?”

Theon doesn’t release his hold on the Northern histories, but hands over the rest. He finds his comb, his razor, his wolfskin cloak and his boots. Picking up things at random as he walks along his room, inspecting them, putting them back down. The vial of almond oil sits forgotten on his bedside table. He hasn’t used it since taking Jon’s virtue. He stares at it a moment before pocketing it. He wants to stall, if he stalls long enough maybe he can stay here, packing up his things until his uncle too has died.

But before too much longer, Wayn takes to his side and reaches for his things. “If you need anything further, Lord Greyjoy, we’ll be sure to bring it to you. We should — we should show you down now.”

Wayn is the youngest of them, only a few years older than Theon. He perhaps feels the worst of them all. A crude, rough boy, but friendly. He drinks most often with Theon, at the inn. Has even gone hunting with him a few times, alongside Robb. Theon nods when Wayn looks at him, and hands over the rest of his things for Wayn to carry.

Theon follows after them, holding tightly to the book of Northern histories. They say nothing else to him until they file down under a stone arch and the dark, winding stairs leading underneath the Great Keep.

“Here you are, lad,” Jory says as he swings the door open. It’s small and dark, and smells faintly of mold. “Lord Stark says it’s not to be locked from the outside. We’re here to guard you from your uncle’s men, mostly. Not keep you like a dog.”

Mostly. Theon stares at his feet. He’s terrified that if he looks up, Jory may see how close he is to tears. See what a coward he is. It’s hard to not see Jory as an enemy now, as well. It wasn’t his uncle’s men who put him here.

“Get some rest, lad,” Wayn adds. “The first few nights you may only see our faces, but don’t fret. Lord Stark says he needs to speak to his children separate, to help them understand.”

Theon still doesn’t understand, himself. Will Lord Stark come speak to him, as well? He nods.

“You’ll be allowed visitors soon enough,” Wayn tries again. “Don’t myself think Lord Stark will be able to keep the lordling heir away from you too long. Do you?”

He’s not sure why he laughs. It comes out dry and harsh, and he shakes his head.

“We’ll let you get some rest,” Jory tells him awkwardly. “Alyn will be down with your dinner, if you think of anything else you want by then, let him know and we’ll bring it down to you.”

 _My freedom,_ Theon doesn’t say, _My own bed. My family back._ Did he ever have those things? 

He only nods. 

The barred door creaks as Jory pulls it closed. A simple lock flicks shut. Theon can’t reach it from where he is, but if anyone comes down to see him, they could easily come inside. Lord Stark probably means it to seem less like Theon is a prisoner. Instead, he just feels unprotected.

It’s only once the guards leave him alone in his cell, trapped under the Great Keep, that Theon lets himself cry. He hasn’t allowed himself such things since he was a child stood outside Winterfell for the first time. The castle had terrified him then, and it terrifies him now. Not the home he’d grown used to. Now it’s much like it had seemed when he was a child. Cold and ancient and so, so empty.

He wonders if Lord Stark is speaking to his children now. How Robb is reacting, or Jon.

His throat goes tight enough to gag him. He can’t think of Jon now.

The words of Euron’s letter haunt him. He’d claimed he has killed every opposer. Theon’s not sure what that means for his family. Balon is dead, but there was no word from Lord Stark of his mother, or of Yara. Foolishly, he lets himself hope they’re alright. They’re only women. Euron may not even deign to consider them a threat. But his mother’s madness might have taken her entirely by now, and the Yara Theon remembers was a cruel, hard thing, even as a girl. They may have resisted his undeserved rule. They may be nothing more than dead opposers now, to Euron.

Before Jory had left, he had supplied Theon parchment and quills to write anyone he may wish. He is sure his letters will be read before they are sent. Still, Theon wonders if there’s a way he could learn whether Yara and his mother are alive, if they’re safe. Yara hadn’t been like their brothers. She’d been mean, mayhaps, and teased him, but she never laid a harmful hand on him. Too much like their mother, to hurt him. And she and his mother had been all he’d had left, amidst the rebellion. 

It occurs to him that he misses her. His sister and his mother both. Foolishly, helplessly, he wishes they were here.

Tears warp the sight of the frozen stone wall in front of him. He hates it, how frightened he is. He’s a warrior. An ironborn. A lord. _The_ lord, now, of the Islands. He was meant to rule the Iron Islands, once, and he could again. Euron had been banished. He has no real claim. Theon could sail home with an army and save his mother and his sister, save his people. Like he’s meant to.

As quickly as the thought arises, Theon scoffs it away. Lord Stark would not lend him a host. No northern lord would be compelled to fight for him. Even if Theon did manage to secure a force, greenlanders fighting beside an ironborn for his rightful lands would be a mockery. And the Iron Fleet isn’t his now. It belongs to Euron. 

It’s not fair. None of this is fair. He had done what he was told. He had stayed. For years, he had stayed in Winterfell and smiled at them all, every day, all on the promise that one day he would return home. He was meant to be a lord. He was meant to go home, back to his family. A mother who loved him, a sister, subjects of his own. A _home._

Furious with himself, Theon kicks the stone wall of his cell. Pain shoots all the way up his leg and he grinds his teeth to keep from shouting, crumples onto the straw mattress nested on the floor in the corner of the cell. Never has his state been more pitiful than this moment. He’s cold, and alone, and doomed. Tears of anguish prick in the corners of his eyes, rumble loose in his throat. He’s lost to heaving sobs, echoing too-loud off the stone, trapping him, reduced to a weeping child, small and helpless. He curls tightly on the straw mattress and pulls the thin woolen blanket over him. He hadn’t thought to take the blankets off his bed in the castle. Perhaps he should have.

There’s no one to pretend for, now. No one here to see. He lets himself cry until his tears have dried and his throat is raw. Exhaustion takes him quickly, after that.

The clang of the iron bars swinging open disturbs him sometime later. Alyn, with his dinner. Theon sits up, abashed to being caught sleeping in a heap like a vagabond. It can’t have been more than a few hours. He’s no right to look so wretched already. But Alyn offers no comment on his state, nor sleeping in the middle of the day. He only smiles uneasily as he hands Theon his plate.

Theon stares at it. Lamb and carrots with a flagon of wine. It’s strange, to think it’s what the Starks are eating upstairs, sitting in their brightly lit solars, eating by glowing torchlight, and attended by servants. When he looks back up, Alyn has stepped away from him.

“Are you want for anything further from your chambers, Lord Greyjoy?”

Theon shakes his head. He doesn’t want to speak, in case his voice wavers. It isn’t until Alyn is long gone that Theon remembers wanting his wolf pelts. He sits with the plate on his knees for a long time before dimly realizing he has no appetite. He sets the plate on the floor to worry over later, and takes a pull from his wine. He’s not eaten since breakfast, and it makes his head swim quickly. He takes another drink before leaning forward to heft the book of northern histories into his lap.

It isn’t long before the letters dance along the page, and Theon stretches out over the straw mattress, succumbing to sleep with his head pillowed on the book.


	2. Jon

Suddenly, the air in Father’s solar is too thin to breathe. Jon think he may faint. Earlier, when he had watched as Theon trailed the maester under the stone arch into the keep and not return, Jon had tried not to worry. Father always had Theon running errands. This was not out of the ordinary. But then Jory had come to collect the older children, explaining there was news that their Father wished to discuss and Jon went lightheaded. But now it feels as if his heart is beating in his throat. Like he’s trying to breathe fire. Like he might be sick. There’s a loud roar in his ears that muffles all other sound around him.

Jon had chosen to stand as their father addressed them, but after the news, he falls back into the chair Father had pulled out for him, seated heavy between Arya and Sansa.

Robb, however, remains standing, his own chair empty and forgotten. “Father, it can’t be true. It’s not right.”

“Robb, listen here, this is not the time to—” Father starts, but Robb only interrupts.

“Why must Theon be imprisoned for his uncle’s treachery? Treachery against his own house and family! He murdered Theon’s father! His own kin. Theon would have no desire to leave the North to join a rebellion that murdered his father and stole his rightful place as heir to the Iron Islands. There is no need to have him under guard with lock and key.”

Ice water pushes in Jon’s veins. He doesn’t look up from the hands clenched in his lap.

“Son, I understand your belief in him. But your faith and trust in him matters little now that it may be put to test against steel,” Father says then. “We cannot risk losing him to another man’s war.”

“It is his war,” Jon murmurs without thinking. Neither Robb nor Father seem to hear him, but he can feel the eyes of both his sisters snap to him. 

“Let me speak to him,” Robb says then, standing with his back straight, chin up. “If I can speak to him we can prove to you that he —”

“I am not permitting Lord Greyjoy visitors for a day and a night, Robb.”

Jon looks up from his hands, staring. In unison with Robb’s aghast shout, he whispers, “Why?”

Father maintains his even tone. “It would do no good to see him now when tempers are high and facts of the matter are sparse. Tensions are far too volatile tonight, and I wish to afford him the chance to rest and grapple with the news, alone, before being made to entertain anyone. It will not be forever, Robb, but you must understand —”

“Absolutely not,” Robb interrupts. “This is unjust, Father. It is not right to just _forbid_ him visitors. You cannot—”

“I can,” Father speaks over him, “and I have. A guard will be stationed at your door for the night, Robb. Do not attempt to defy my decision, please.”

“Will we all have guards?” Sansa asks gently. 

Before Father can answer her, Robb speaks again, loud and firmly. “So you plan to keep me a prisoner as well? Why not lock the both of us away under the Great Keep?”

Jon gasps at his brother's audacity. He has never seen Robb this angry with their father. Jon can’t stay in this room. He’s rapidly losing his composure.

“Father,” Jon asks, voice cracking as he forces it over Robb’s commanding tone. Lord Stark looks at him then, grey eyes melancholy. “Is that all of the news?”

“Aye,” Father answers, reaching over and plucking the scroll that carried the declaration from his desk. “Euron Greyjoy is not a reasonable nor lawful man. There’s no further word than his kinslaying and declaration against the throne.”

“We have to protect him,” Robb insists, “not _lock him in a cell._ ”

“You’ll not raise your voice in front of your sisters, Robb,” Father responds calmly. “And this _is_ for Theon’s protection. And for our own as well. We can achieve both aims at the same time.”

Jon gets to his feet. “If that’s all,” he says shakily, “then I’ll be off, if I am dismissed, Father.”

“Jon, you _can’t_ agree with this,” Robb wheels on him. “I know the two of you have never gotten on, but you must know this isn’t right.”

One wrong word and Jon will shatter to pieces and confess everything to them, to all of them. He cannot stay here. He can’t let them know now, not when Theon’s immediate fate is so uncertain. Father may have Theon’s head after all, if he learns of what they have done.

“There’s nothing to agree with or dispute as of yet, Stark,” Jon replies as evenly as he can manage. “When word returns from the King, Father will know what to do then.”

Tension drops from Robb’s shoulders with a heavy sigh. His face is still twisted in frustration, jaw tense. He is not done with the argument, not by a long shot, but he at least allows Jon to duck out of their father’s solar without further appeal. 

And Jon barely makes to shutting the heavy ironwood door behind him before he shuts his eyes and his face crumples. Anguish floods him like a wave as he pushes quickly through the stone hallways, desperately pressing a hand over his mouth to stifle a sob.

If anyone notices him running through the castle, they do not pester him. He slips down the corridors to his bedchamber without interference. Perhaps no one noticed him at all. It’s not often anyone does, save for his siblings. Or Theon. And now he’s a prisoner under the Great Keep.

Jon bars his door, kicks off his boots, flings himself onto his bed. Curling up on his featherbed, Jon turns his face into his wolf pelts to hide the tears. He wishes he could crawl into Theon’s bed. The smell of him always helps to settle Jon’s nerves. The thought only makes him weep further, exhausted and angry. He curls one hand into a fist, drives his elbow into the cushion by his head, and feels only grand futility for it. The display is as pathetic as his conduct had been. He couldn’t even manage to speak for Theon alongside Robb. Not even when his brother had pleaded with him. After all his bolstering and proud promises, he couldn’t even manage to stay in the same room as Robb stood alone for Theon’s welfare.

What has he done? What will happen now that Jon was so cowardly as to keep his words quiet? He doubts Robb alone will be able to sway their father to anything. For a moment he entertains the thought that perhaps Arya and Sansa would speak out against the injustice as well, but it only makes him more miserable to think his two young sisters braver than he is. And what good would the pleas of young girls do in matters of war?

After everything Theon has done for him — how much Jon cares for him — Jon couldn’t even manage that much. He’s never been such a coward.

It was never meant to happen, anyway. Jon was so sure it never would. Even now that he knows it to be true, he still struggles to understand how. The Iron Islands were never meant to rebel again. Father was never meant to distrust Theon’s character so blatantly. Both of them were meant to be safe and cared for in Winterfell.

 _“The ironborn are a hearty people,”_ Theon had told him back at the inn, _“my father may live for another twenty years after you and your northern brood are gone.”_

It had been so easy to believe that, then. With Theon curled tight over him, lips soft in his hair. It hadn’t been that long ago, he knows. If he closes his eyes he can still remember what that fortnight had been like, the smells of their room, the soft way Theon laughed when Jon would burrow into his side. He wishes he could go back. It hadn’t been more than a month or so now, had it? Sometimes it feels as if they’re still there now. Or at least it had, when Theon would lie beside him as Jon drifted off to sleep. Will he ever have such privilege again? 

They’d not been separate during the night in months now. Jon can barely recall the last time he fell asleep without Theon’s warm sturdy body at his side, and the scent of rain and salt surrounding him. How will he ever manage now? On this night, when the mere idea of sleep at all is terrifying?

And what of Theon? Jon’s heart breaks to think how he may be faring. Alone, cold. He must be so frightened. Jon sits up from his bed, determined to go to him, but as his feet hit his cold flagstone, the foolishness of the impulse dawns on him. What would he say, were anyone to see him headed for the dungeon? Father had told them all not to visit him for now. So adamant was he that there is a guard posted at Robb’s door. Jon does not have one. Father hadn’t assumed he would need one. But still, if someone were to notice him, Jon would have no good reason to be there. Would it be suspicious? Would someone suspect him of aiding Theon? If not even Robb is allowed to creep in to see him, what would Jon be doing, sneaking in the dead of night to see a man no one believes him to like? 

And even if he were to go see Theon, what would Jon say to him? When Theon asked how Jon had stood for him, what would he say? After all, Jon is a terrible liar. Theon never gets tired of saying.

Defeated, Jon slumps back onto his bed. He could not face Theon, now. Even if he were permitted to.

When Jon hears the knock at his door some time later, he almost doesn’t answer. It would be too blatant, for anyone to see him like this. Face blotched and reddened from crying. He’d only managed to rein in his tears in the last hour, a chilly sort of numbness settling over him in their wake.

“Jon?” Arya’s voice is soft and curious through the door. Unusual, really, compared to her usual brash tone. “Jon, come on, let me in. I know you’re in there.”

Throat tight, Jon climbs up from his bed and swings the door open to Arya’s pinched little face. She’s glaring, arms crossed across her little chest, and Jon feels a smile twitch at the corner of his mouth at the sight of her serious frown.

“Father says that the gods don’t listen to children’s squabbles. Says they know to ignore what isn’t serious.”

Jon blinks, momentarily thrown. “Wh — what? What are you talking about?”

“That’s why you’re holed up in your room this way, isn’t it?” Arya always asks questions as if she already knows the answer. “I saw the look of you, when Father spoke to us. You prayed for something bad to happen to Greyjoy, and now it has, and you feel bad about it.”

For a moment, Jon can’t speak. Shock is heavy and cold in his chest.

Arya takes his silence as confirmation. “I prayed for something terrible to happen to Sansa because I was mad that she told Mother about my frog collection,” she says then, “and then later she came down with that horrible cough, and I thought I’d have to lock her in her room for her wailing. But, still, I felt bad for her, because it was my fault that she got sick. And I hadn’t meant it, not really.”

Jon smirks, despite himself. He remembers Sansa’s short-lived illness from several moons ago. 

“I went and told Father what I’d done. Thought he’d be angry, but I couldn’t let Sansa die, I suppose. But when I told him, Father only laughed. Told me the gods are sensible enough to know when prayers are true and when they’re not.” She rolls her eyes before she shrugs. “So… Greyjoy being in the dungeons. That’s not your fault.”

A dam breaks inside Jon’s chest and he kneels to scoop his sister in his arms, holding her close with all his might. Arya hugs him back with her little arms, somewhat nervously when she notices the tears in his eyes. Jon swallows back his tears, and Arya worms out from his grip.

“The two of you have been acting strangely, lately. Did he do something horrible to you?”

Coughing back a gasp, Jon shakes his head. “No. We haven’t — I haven’t acted any different.”

“You have, too,” she informs him. “You should tell me if he did something, you know. I won’t tell anyone else. You can still be mad at him, even if he’s in the dungeons now. He’s an ass.”

Jon cuffs her ear lightly, tugging one of her messy braids. “Don’t let your lady mother hear you speak such a way. She’ll be upset with me,” he tells her.

With a scoff, Arya rolls her eyes. Lady Catelyn’s tireless work to make a proper lady out of little Arya has only ever proven futile for the both of them.

“And I’m not angry with him,” Jon assures her, adding hastily, “No more than usual.” 

Thankfully, Arya is satisfied with that answer and hugs him again. 

Heart pounding, he presses a kiss to Arya’s hair. “Thank you for watching over me, little sister.”

She always loves when he calls her that, and pulls back to beam at him with a toothy smile, the rest of their talk all but forgotten.

“Would it cheer you to help me catch frogs in the springs?” she asks, grinning. “There’s a great fat brown one I’ve been trying to catch, but he’s quiet fast for something so big.”

Jon has never been able to deny Arya anything. Grabbing his cloak off the floor, he gives her the most convincing nod he can manage. Perhaps Arya does not believe him. She doesn’t have to. She’s too excited about replenishing her frog collection to put too much stock in Jon’s mood.

To stay distracted, Jon stays out catching frogs with Arya until dusk and the sky becomes too dark to continue their hunt. As the sun sets, all the hidden frogs of the pond begin to sing their lonesome, eerie calls among the rushes. Now and again, it’s almost enough for Jon to let himself forget what had driven him to hole up in his room in the first place. It doesn’t last long, and the news returns to him like the thought of a bad dream, even as it happens again and again before the daylight fades. Were he able, Theon would have come and found them by now, Jon knows. He should be at the edge of the pond mocking Jon for being tricked into children’s games until Arya would scoop water in her hand and fling it close enough to startle him. The idea makes Jon smile, but only for a moment.

Theon should be here.

At the very least, Arya leaves the pond happily enough, her skinny arms wrapped around an old woven basket Septa Mordane had once carried laundry in. The septa hasn’t used the basket since Arya was a babe, and she won’t use it again, now that it’s carrying nine newly captured little frogs inside it.

“You should’ve caught the fat one!” she scolds as she hoists up her bounty.

“What you said was true, it was very fast. That’s probably how he got to be so big. Outruns the little ones.”

“Well, you were hardly any help,” Arya tells him, laughing. She seems to have forgotten Jon’s earlier sullen mood entirely. “I watched one leap right from your hands.”

“Aye, I’m not skilled as you at this,” Jon reminds her. “Frogs weren’t in the ponds, when I was a boy. It was too cold.”

Arya goes quiet at that. She forgets that Jon’s youth was spent in winter. His little sister has only ever known endless summer. 

At first, Jon wonders if he perhaps upset her, but then she asks, “So what did you do for fun, then?”

Jon looks at the path below his feet in the dusky twilight. The first fond memory to spring to mind is Theon dumping snow onto his hair in the godswood, and he frowns. His heart aches in his chest.

“Snowball fights, mostly,” Jon supplies after a moment.

“We do those now, too, when it snows enough,” Arya says with an air of frustration. Perhaps she’d hoped for something different and exciting that she’d never heard of before. 

Jon shrugs. “Well, we had quite a bit more of them, when Robb and I were boys. There was so much snow, we would spend all day building fortresses and towers out of it and siege one another like we were knights in a great war.”

Arya is quiet again. “Did Theon play, too?”

“Sometimes.”

Jon remembers with a pang in his chest, Theon keeping mostly to his room when he and Robb would play. Said such games were for children.

Arya doesn’t ask anything else as they make their way inside the castle, and Jon doesn’t feel like talking.

As the sun sets behind the woods, Jon returns to his room, watching out the window. It’s jarring, to know Theon will not come to him tonight. It still doesn’t feel true and he can think of little else. His bed is cold, knowing it won’t be shared, but he doesn’t crawl under his wolf pelts. He’s not tired. A nervous edge, a raw energy tugs hard in his sinews, making it impossible to lie still. 

Jon gets up from his bed, paces twice around his chambers, and sits then at his desk.

One of his candles is still lit, having burnt low over the day. Jon watches the wax drip down the from the top of the pillar. Strange to think, he’s never really watched a candle melt before. Not with the intent he does now. It seems unreal, somehow. Too fast. Or perhaps too slow. Jon can’t tell. There’s not quite enough light in the room to watch such an intricate thing, and the golden flame is mesmerizing in the dimming light. 

Instead of snuffing the candle and crawling into bed, Jon instead lights another, to better see the wax pool and harden on his desk.

The knock at his door is so unexpected that Jon leaps from his chair. For wild instant he thinks perhaps it’s Theon, but by the time he makes it to his door, he realizes that’s impossible. 

When he swings his door open, it’s Robb that stands before him, looking tired and angry.

“Stark,” Jon greets, his voice raw with disuse, “you should be asleep.”

“As should you. Thought I’d wake you, until I saw the shadows under your door.”

Jon looks back at the lit candles upon his desk. It would sound strange, to admit what he was doing.

As it turns out, Robb has no interest in what Jon was doing awake. He speaks again before Jon can begin to explain himself.

“It took me nearly an hour to convince Desmond to even let me come to see you,” Robb says with a sigh, walking into Jon’s room. “And so now he’s watching at the end of the hall as if I’m some unworthy thief. Why am I the only one with a guard at my door?”

“Did Sansa not get one as well?" He means it as a joke, but it falls flat. At a loss, Jon shrugs. “I trust Father doesn’t expect any of the rest of us to disobey him for Greyjoy’s sake.”

Saying it feels awkward in his mouth, like seeds from a rancid fruit sticking to his tongue. He hopes that it sounds natural, to Robb, but he’s not sure he fools himself. 

Robb only frowns at him. “This whole thing is madness. You agree, don’t you? Father keeping him in the dungeons like that. Like he’s a traitor.”

Jon says nothing. He can’t. Robb will know instantly, if he speaks. Thankfully Robb doesn’t wait long for an answer before speaking again. 

“Father says it’s for his own protection. How can he claim that? It’s because the king wants Theon as a hostage, as a prisoner. But what good will that do? His uncle is a kinslayer! Does the king think Euron Greyjoy will lay down his arms if they threaten Theon’s life? Theon is a challenge to him, not an ally!”

He lets Robb rant, thankful he doesn’t have to contribute, that his brother might see him losing his composure.

“His uncle,” Robb continues bitterly, “Theon’s told me of him. A vile man, too terrible even for a place as ruthless as the Iron Islands. He’d been banished, not long ago. What sort of kingdom gives claims of lordship to an exile before the son of their fallen lord?”

“The Iron Islands, I suppose,” Jon answers evenly, his heart thudding like a rock against his ribs. 

Robb only glares at him, finding Jon’s dark humour unhelpful.

Theon had never spoken of his uncle to Jon. Jon asked of him once, when he was young, and news of the scandalous banishment reached Winterfell. Jon had asked what Theon’s uncle might have done to be exiled from his own homeland. Theon had been little more than a boy then himself, and had only told Jon not to trouble himself with matters outside his own dealings.

Jon had never thought to mention the man again, but it seems Theon had no issue confiding in Robb. That causes Jon’s heart to twist uncomfortably, to realize that Robb still has more of Theon’s trust than Jon does, even after everything.

“What sort of man is he?” Jon asks, trying to sound flippant.

“Cruel,” Robb answers, flatly, “even in war, he was crueler than any man living, so Theon tells it. During the rebellion, his ship was the most feared, it was said. It was him that devised the plan to burn the fleet in Lannisport. He’s never treated his kin much different from his enemies. Now it seems moreso than ever.”

Jon regrets asking. Something hard and cold settles at the bottom of his stomach, and he sinks heavily onto his desk chair. He has to swallow against a lump in his throat to ease the threat of tears in his eyes.

The silence sits between them like a solid presence. After a moment, Robb sighs.

“Listen, Jon, I know you don’t care for Greyjoy,” Robb tells him at last, “but you at least must understand the lack of justice in this. He’s done nothing to earn this treatment. Perhaps he’s harsh to you at times, but you can’t possibly believe imprisonment is fair for boyhood squabbles.”

“No,” Jon answers shortly, “I don’t believe that.”

“You said nothing for his character, earlier,” Robb says with another sigh, “I was worried perhaps your dislike of him may have clouded your sense of justice.”

Such a resentful word. Jon chews silently on the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t know what to say. Finally, he shakes his head.

“It’s only that…” he clears his throat with an awkward cough. “I see no point in standing against a decision not yet made.”

“And if one is made,” Robb says slowly, “if word comes back from the king in the south, and if it be — if it’s an unfair one…” Jon doesn’t look up. The look on his face will give him away. “Would you stand for him?”

Jon schools his expression before meeting Robb’s eyes. 

It’s a long enough pause that Robb adds, “Perhaps not for Theon, but then, for me?”

Swallowing, Jon nods.

“I’ll stand for what’s right,” says Jon. “Greyjoy has no hand in what his uncle has done and stands to benefit not at all. He should not face punishment for this. My — my opinion of him doesn’t change that.”

Robb smiles wide, the frustration and rage releasing his expression, just slightly. “Thank you,” he says, pulling Jon into a hug. “I should’ve known you’d feel as much. Please don’t think I doubted you. Only — I suppose I was worried, when you left Father’s solar so quickly this morning…”

“Understandable. I know he is your friend,” Jon says in a rush, pulling away from Robb’s hold. He feels exposed and alone. Somehow more alone than he had before Robb showed up at his door. “I hadn’t meant to cause question to my character. I would never betray you in such a way.”

As he says it, the lie feels heavy on his tongue. He is betraying Robb, after all, right this instant, by keeping from him everything he and Theon have done. He takes a step back from Robb and drops his eyes to his feet. 

“Apologies, Stark, but if you don’t mind, I think — I think the both of us should retire to bed.”

Robb frowns at his brother’s sudden distance. Or perhaps the tears Jon’s straining to hold off are starting to appear in the corners of his eyes. Jon doesn’t feel them, but perhaps he’s just gone numb.

“I can’t sleep,” Robb says shyly. “It’s childish, perhaps, but I — I’m worried about him.”

“That’s not childish,” Jon answers too quickly with a shake of his head. His voice cracks slightly, desperate to admit his similar fears, but he swallows the words back, adds stiltedly, “But it — it does no good staying up with your worries, does it?”

It’s agony. Jon can barely manage to breathe. Robb gives him a final hug, clearly heartbroken, and Jon returns it stiffly. As much as he yearns for comfort himself, revelling too deeply in it would seem strange and obvious.

Perhaps Jon seems strange and obvious regardless, pushing Robb out of his room and swinging the door shut behind him, but it’s too hard to hold himself together with Robb saying Jon’s every thought aloud. 

He crawls into his bed and bundles tight under his quilt and wolfskins, finally allowing himself to weep. He expects that his sobs will exhaust him, but sleep doesn’t come to him. Instead he tosses and turns over his featherbed, getting up several times in the night to pace the length of his room, his skin itching. It’s an age before he’s finally able to sit still enough to feel the ache of tiredness in his bones. Still, he can’t sleep. Instead he watches as the night fades from his window in silence, tears drying on his face, shivering under his furs despite their warmth.

There’s an odd feeling over the castle the next morning. Quiet and grim. Father had spoken to Bran and Rickon of Theon’s imprisonment as well, though perhaps not given the young ones as much detail on the matter. Bran finds Robb at breakfast to ask why Theon is in the dungeons, and Jon hurriedly finishes his meal so he can excuse himself before he hears much of Robb’s answer. Rickon is perhaps too young to understand anything, though it does not escape his notice that Theon is missing from the castle. When Jon collects him for his afternoon nap as Theon usually does, Rickon only twists in Jon’s arms and asks for him. Jon swallows and holds him close.

“I’ll be tending to you for now, little one,” he says gently. “Theon will be back soon.”

Little Rickon has always liked Theon. Since his third nameday it was clear the youngest Stark was spirited and wild, always slipping out of sight from his nursemaids to wrestle with his brothers — though they never paid him any mind. But Theon has always been keen on him. Perhaps due to being the youngest son of his own family, but Theon has never minded watching over Rickon when he escapes his nursery. Once, when Rickon was just barely three, he’d stripped off his clothes and went racing naked through the courtyard, stomping through puddles of mud. Half the castle made effort to catch him that day, but it was Theon who finally managed it, scooping him up in his arms and scolding him good-naturedly about staying dressed.

 _“Come now, lordling,”_ he’d told Rickon with a laugh, _“if you want us all to think you’re just as grown as your brothers you can’t be waving your bits around.”_ And despite Lady Catelyn’s distaste for the crassness of his advice, Rickon had taken to it. As indifferent as the Lady of Winterfell is of her husband’s ward, even she has to admit Theon always kept little Rickon under watch better than any beleaguered nursemaid. 

And what will happen now that Theon is locked under the Great Keep? Will Rickon learn to regard him as a prisoner, as he grows? Or will he simply forget him once the king orders Theon put to death?

A quiet, discomforted squeak from Rickon pulls Jon from his thoughts. He’d been holding the poor babe too tightly. He can’t let himself think that way. He can’t let that happen. 

As Jon places the baby in his bed, he tries to figure how long they should wait for the king’s response before starting to worry. He wonders if he’ll ever be allowed to see Theon again.

Theon will be free soon. He has to be. Jon will never make it here, if he isn’t.

While Theon is absent from the daily routine, Jon’s only peace is found in solitude. He avoids Robb and the children, the servants, avoids his own father. Every voice when speaking to him is far too loud, every touch on his arm sharp like broken glass. He wants desperately to be alone. 

Gratefully, most of the household grants him his solitude. He is the lord’s bastard, quiet and morose, afforded courtesy through deference not duty. But his sister Arya cannot be avoided. She finds Jon while he is reading alone in the godswood a day and a night after Theon has been imprisoned. She always did know where he went to be alone. Arya hasn't pressed further over what has gone on between Jon and Theon, but as she settles beside Jon in the lush grass, she seems to have decided to be upset on Jon’s behalf nonetheless. 

“I’ve decided not to speak to Father until Greyjoy is freed,” she announces.

An anxious wave courses though Jon’s body as he forces himself to look impassive, setting his book down on his lap. “And why not?”

Arya shrugs. “You seem different since father locked him away. You’re quieter, even to me, and I don’t like it.” Guilt stabs at Jon, and he looks at his hands. Arya isn’t bothered. “Is it something to do with being a bastard? Are you worried that Father will imprison you next?”

Jon’s eyes widen. Not even Robb has made such a connection. He opens his mouth to respond, but Arya seems to never ask a question without already knowing the answer. 

“Well whatever reason it is, I’m mad, too. Robb is already not speaking to Father anyway, even though Father is letting him go to the dungeons after supper.”

A sharp pain blazes through Jon’s chest. “And how do you know that for sure?”

Arya inspects him, always too clever for her own good. “I overheard Father speaking to him this morning. Do you want to go as well? I’m sure Father would let you.”

Frantic, Jon shakes his head. “No, no. I’ve no need. Greyjoy would not be glad to see me. Anyway, Robb will keep him plenty busy.”

Arya squints, curious. For a moment, she says nothing.

“Have the two of you become friends?” she asks, looking down at Jon’s book as if asking it, instead, “Is that why you were both acting so strangely before now? Is that why you’re quiet?”

Jon weighs his options on what to tell her, but the truth comes out of his mouth before he’s decided how to answer. “In a sense.”

“What does _that_ mean?”

Jon chews on his lip. He shrugs. “You’ll understand it when you’re older, I suppose,” is the closest he can manage to avoid letting her know too much. Arya is far too clever to lie to, and he is far too bad at it.

Arya’s face pinches into an icy glare that isn’t much unlike her sister’s. “What’s it got to do with being old?” she asks, annoyed, “Septa Mordane is old, and she doesn’t understand _anything._ ”

It makes Jon laugh, despite himself. Arya only looks further infuriated. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Jon attempts uselessly. “Perhaps you’re right. But it’s hard to explain, anyway.”

Rolling her eyes, Arya decides to move on, perhaps too frustrated or bored to stay on the subject. “I may not want to speak to Father over it, but I still say Greyjoy is an ass. You shouldn’t want friends like him.”

It stings, but Jon doesn’t let her know that and gives her a smile. “Aye,” he tells her with mock seriousness, “you can’t very well be my only friend in this castle, little sister.”

“Can too,” Arya argues. “Anyway, you have Robb as well.”

Jon tisks, tugging at her messy braid as he gets to his feet, picking his book up out of the dirt. “There’s no arguing with you, is there?”

Arya shakes her head with a toothy grin. Jon kisses her head. 

“Have you washed up for supper?” he asks, changing the subject as evenly as possible. 

Arya shakes her head with a sense of pride, and Jon rolls his eyes with exasperated fondness as he ushers the both of them back inside.


	3. Theon

Robb is the first to visit him. It’s been two days, Theon thinks, and he looks exhausted and angry. Stunned, Theon falters, hardly believing his eyes. He was so sure none of them would venture down to see him. Theon jumps to his feet when Robb appears at the foot of the stairs, embarrassed to think he may have seen Theon wallowing, seated hunched on the floor.

If he had noticed, however, he doesn’t see to mention it.

“I’m sorry,” are the first words he says to Theon. “Father wouldn’t — he wouldn’t let me come sooner. I had a guard outside my door all day and night.”

Despite everything, Theon chuckles, heart joyful. Robb’s face is a welcome sight. It’s easy to pretend being down here is nothing, if Robb is the one so willing to be upset. “Aye, Stark, the guards told me as much. I don’t hold it against you.”

He expects Robb to respond to that, but he doesn’t. He only looks at Theon, heartbroken.

Silence stretches between them until Theon awkwardly asks, “Is there any news?” 

He’s not sure if he wants to hear anything anyway. News from the Islands would most certainly be unwelcome, and Theon does not have high hopes over any news from the capital.

But Robb shakes his head, anyway. “I’m sorry, Theon. Father told us — said it was your uncle.”

Theon does not want to talk about Euron. He does not want to talk about his father, or the rebellion. He looks at his knees without response. Robb, bless him, seems to understand. 

Robb touches the iron bars and frowns. “I should have asked the guards for the key. Father said he hadn’t locked you in here, but…”

“Oh, aye,” Theon interrupts. It’s exhausting, standing at the bars this way. He’s been so tired these last few days. He takes a seat back onto the floor, hoping it seems casual. “That’s not on your father’s order, that’s just Alyn. Bit of a stickler, that one. None of the other guards lock up, after bringing my meals down. They know I’ve nowhere to go. Couldn’t get past them even if I did. I don’t think Alyn even means to do it. Perhaps it’s just habit, all the other prisoners you keep about in Winterfell.”

He says it with all his usual wry amusement, smirking, but Robb doesn’t smile back at him. Instead, he just kneels on the stone floor, keeping Theon at eye level through the iron grate between them.

“Are you want for anything?” Robb asks. “What do you do down here all day?”

Theon scoffs, his foot pointedly nudging the flask next to his plate of supper that had been full of ale just this evening. Robb frowns at it. It upsets him, to see the empty flask beside the mostly untouched plate of food, so Theon reaches instead for the large volume of northern histories he’d left on the floor.

“I’ve been reading,” he says with a forced lightness to his voice, as he cracks the book open over his lap, “about your family.”

That doesn’t ease the look on Robb’s face. 

Theon huffs, shuffling the wide pages. “My namesake was a Stark, you know.”

“I know,” Robb says. His voice is flat.

“Theon Stark was a king,” Theon says casually, still flipping through the book as if waiting for it to reveal something he hasn’t read already, “long ago, before Aegon the Conqueror, when the Seven Kingdoms were truly seven kingdoms, he ruled in the North.”

“Yes,” Robb confirms, cautiously. He knows the story just as well as Theon does. They’ve learned it in their lessons several times, seated side-by-side. They’ve seen the King of Winter’s grim face depicted in stone down in the crypts, run their hands over the tomb holding his very bones. But Theon has read it over and over, since being down here. It seems like the only true fact he knows, anymore. His own name inked into the Stark history, as if it belongs here.

“He killed hundreds of ironborn,” Theon reminds him then. Robb sits back on his heels, listening. “Murdered Ravos the Raper and then threw the rest of the ironborn out of Bear Island and Cape Kraken…”

The look on Robb’s face only darkens. 

“Perhaps it means something. It must mean something,” Theon finally admits, dropping the book back onto his lap, “mustn’t it? An ill omen. A bad luck token. Why would my father name me for a Stark? A Stark king who murdered hundreds of ironborn men, no less? And then I’m — I’m here. He could never have intended to send me here when he named me, but here I am, all the same. And now my uncle…”

“Theon.” Robb’s voice is very quiet, hesitant to cut him off, as if afraid Theon has gone mad. “You’re the rightful heir, and you are a fine swordsman and an even finer archer, but your uncle is a savage man, a kinslayer, with all the Iron Fleet at his command. You can’t think you would have a chance against him.”

“Not alone, mayhaps,” says Theon, looking back at the book as if it will speak up to agree with him. “But the Hungry Wolf was not alone, either.”

Robb’s eyes fall to the floor. “Aye,” he concedes, “he was not.”

There’s silence for a moment, and it builds like a sour knot in Theon’s throat. Perhaps he’s said something wrong. But Robb only reaches through the bars of the cell and takes Theon’s hand in a strong grip.

“I’d fight beside you, if it came to that. I would. Whether my father approves of such things, I cannot speak for, but my sword is yours, you know that.”

“I — I don’t know who’s left,” Theon admits, swallowing the retch in his throat. He’s gotten so used to crying down here, with no one to see. Gotten soft. “On Pyke, I mean. My mother, my sister, there was no word of either them. I don’t know if I could even save them, if I returned.”

Robb is very quiet, then. He squeezes Theon’s hand.

For a moment, the quiet returns, before Robb glances over and says, “Is that book the one my father gave me?”

Theon frowns. He hadn’t known it was a gift from Lord Stark to his heir. It feels less like borrowing and more like stealing, now. He shrugs. 

“I was only borrowing it.” The reason why seems funny now, and he laughs. “Wanted to make you look foolish in lessons. Like I knew more about Stark history than you.”

Robb smiles, but it looks off, uneasy. 

“It didn’t work though, did it?” scoffs Theon. “You’ve always known — everything. Been best at everything.”

For a long while, silence drags. Theon hates it. It had never been so hard to talk to Robb, his truest confidant in Winterfell since they were both boys. He considers handing Robb the book through the bars, but selfishly he wants to keep it. He likes seeing his name put to something important. Robb will have it back in time.

Finally, it is Robb who ventures to break the silence. “I can’t shoot an arrow well as you.”

He means it to encourage, perhaps, but Theon feels nothing. He wonders if he’ll ever shoot an arrow again.

“You’re a better hunter than I am, as well. Can track an elk for miles.”

Theon isn’t sure he’ll ever see far enough for miles again. He stays quiet.

“And girls,” Robb says, floundering, “you’re far better at girls than I’ll ever be.”

Perhaps he doesn’t mean it to be funny, but it makes Theon laugh all the same. It starts as a scoff, but bubbles up, somewhat hysterical. 

A smile cracks over Robb’s face, relieved to have made Theon smile, and Theon throws his head back and snorts.

“Oh aye, I suppose that one’s true,” Theon says when he finally gets a hold of himself, “but perhaps it wouldn’t be if you weren’t such a proper lady about it, Stark.”

Robb reaches through the bars to shove him, and Theon chuckles.

The two of them fall silent again, and Theon struggles to think of a way to cut through the quiet, to keep Robb here with him. “Have any of my whores shown up yet? Wondering where I am?”

“It’s only been two days,” Robb admonishes. Theon can see a twinge in his face, shy and hurt, but he smothers it quickly to grin at him instead. “Would they truly notice you missing so quickly? Perhaps you overestimate yourself.”

Theon appreciates Robb’s effort to make a joke of it, and laughs along easily. “Oh, mayhaps,” he answers with a wink. “Ros can only go so long without my attentions before she begins to pine for me. She’ll never admit it but I see the hungry sort of look she gets in her eye.”

Such brazen language causes Robb to blush slightly. “Oh, I’ll believe that,” he says after a moment, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

Theon chuckles. Now, when they fall into silence, Theon allows it. At first, it settles like every other silence they’ve had between them. They used to be so comfortable in spans of quiet, but as one instant bleeds into the next, Theon cannot fight off the sensation that his skin is crawling. It’s so daunting now, to have a long drag without conversation. Now, the thoughts they’d both always held at bay hang heavy between them. He is a prisoner now, and there is nothing either of them can say to forget such a thing ever again.

Their conversation is stilted and infrequent. Obvious, short bursts of talk between ever-growing gaps of silence. Eventually, the two of them give in to the silence, and sit together in something just short of peace.

Time is impossible to track down here. Theon sleeps at all hours, in fits and starts. Only by the spare rays of sunlight that sometimes hit the high window of Theon’s cell can he tell if it is day or night, and sun went down some time ago.

“It must be getting late, little lord,” Theon muses, looking out the small window, but seeing nothing but black sky. “Perhaps you should get back to the keep before your family starts to miss you.”

Robb doesn’t respond. Perhaps it was too dark a thing to say, given Theon’s current situation. 

Though when Theon glances over, Robb is dozing against the wall. It tugs at his heart and he sighs. “Robb.”

Robb blinks, somewhat dazed, and sits up with a start. “What is it?”

“Go back to your chambers, Stark, you’re falling asleep.”

“No,” Robb answers, shaking his head, “no, I’m fine.”

Even as he says it, Robb stifles a yawn. Theon feels his lips twitch into a smile, despite himself. “Oh, come on, little lord. Go up and get some sleep. I’m tired myself, anyway. No point in you being down here if I’m curled up in bed.”

Awkwardly, Robb clims to his feet. “I’ll… I’ll be back. I’ll talk to Father. He can’t keep you down here forever.”

 _He can,_ Theon thinks, _and he may._ He says nothing of the sort to Robb. He just nods. He waits until Robb’s steps up the winding steps fade to nothing before permitting himself to weep, dropping his head back against the stone wall. Only a few tears he cannot contain. It’s worse, somehow, now that Robb has seen him. He feels far more alone now than he had before. 

Suddenly, unjustly exhausted, Theon abandons his supper, crawls onto his cot and promptly falls asleep himself.

Robb does not visit him the next day. He hadn’t made any promise that he would, but Theon had hoped. Foolishly, he’d assumed that with the guard removed from Robb’s door the young heir would at least venture down to see him half as often as the guardsmen. Theon’s not sure if he’s more heartbroken or relieved when Robb does not come see him. He’s dreadfully lonely down here, but Robb’s visit last night had felt so fully like a performance — like the one he’d done as a child, to seem so unbothered by being taken from his home. Theon remembers those days well, play acting to obscure the fear and lonesomeness, though the need to do so had dwindled with time.

Theon had bought his own act, in the end, like a fool. Let himself believe he was one of them, after so long. Perhaps not fully — always doubt, niggling in the darkest edges of his thoughts — but enough that the smile perhaps wasn’t always so false.

But now the fear is moreso than it ever was when he was a boy. Because he’s here now, trapped under the Great Keep behind iron bars with a basin full of cold water to keep himself clean and the forgotten cuts of meat served on his plate. He’d known as a boy that this would happen, told himself again and again that if he made a mistake, if he stopped smiling, they’d put him in here. So he never stopped smiling, and kept in line, and it all ended up the same as his nightmares told him it would.

Perhaps he’d frightened Robb the night before. Scared him off. Spoke too wistfully of Theon Stark, or of the histories that were never his. Perhaps Robb is uncomfortable to think of someone who saw themselves a Stark kept prisoner in Stark dungeons.

But Theon is not a Stark, he knows that. He’s always known. They never let him forget. For all his wishing, all his pretending, he will never be part of this grim northern family. He’d never wanted the name — that’s what he tells himself, finger tracing over the letters that spell _Theon Stark_ in the thick, ink-heavy pages of Robb’s book. He’s proud to be a Greyjoy. He’s proud of his ironborn blood — but he remembers as a boy, wishing Lord Stark would think of him as a possible suitor for one of his daughters. He had at least thought himself an ally once. He wonders if Lord Stark ever thought of him so informally.

 _To him, you have never been anything but the enemy’s son,_ Theon thinks to himself as he watches the world outside grow dark from the barred window half-covered by grass, _never as anyone worthy of his trust._ It is harder to convince himself otherwise with every passing hour in this cell. What advantage would Lord Stark have, if he were to start to see his hostage as his own son? It would be unwise, certainly unstrategic, to feel sympathy for someone you may have to execute. Theon knows that much, at least, about war.

But surely, Lord Stark is just as human as they all are, under the frigid, severe Northman surface. Surely in eleven years, he must have grown fond of Theon in some way. Perhaps not as a son. Perhaps not even as a suitor for his daughters, but at least as family, a member of his household, a charge to whom he owes some duty. Surely he feels something, or Theon would be dead now. Wouldn’t he?

Perhaps there’s just more strategy in keeping him alive. Theon wonders what strategy that would be.

Before too long, he finds himself wishing there wasn’t one.

It’s five days until Robb comes to visit him again. At least, Theon thinks it’s been five days. It’s hard to tell the hour down here, trapped in the dark with little view of the outside. He sleeps so often, with not much else to do but drink and read, it’s difficult to gauge when one day ends and another begins. The guards bring him meals, three times a day, but Theon rarely eats. At any rate, it seems as long as five days before Theon sees Robb again.

When he does, it's with a flurry and clamour. The eldest Stark boy flings himself down the stairs, calling his name, a scroll clasped in his hand.

“Theon,” he says waving his arms as he approaches the bars, “there’s news! There’s been a raven!”

Theon only huffs Robb’s name when he shows up at the barred door of his cell. Jory had been the one to bring Theon his breakfast, so the door is unlocked from the outside, and Robb slides the bolt back easily to step into Theon’s cell. Theon glares. It’s so easy for Robb, to pretend this is just another room. He can leave it just as simply as he entered. Theon wonders if he’d even remember to slide the bolt back into place when he leaves.

In the five days since Robb’s first visit, Theon had wanted nothing more than to see him, but now that he’s here, Theon hates him. He hates the weight that suddenly presses onto him at the sight of Robb — the need to stand, to smile, to pretend. 

He doesn’t do any of it. He’s too tired.

Robb doesn’t seem to notice anyway. Did he ever? If Theon had not put on the show last time, would it have made a difference? In all these years in this frozen fucking wasteland, would he have even spared a glance if Theon ever stopped fucking smiling?

“Theon,” Robb’s voice cuts through Theon’s thoughts, “are you even listening to me?”

Has he been speaking this whole time? He seems so excited. Perhaps whatever news it is isn’t as miserable as Theon has prepared himself to hear. Still, he can’t seem to match Robb’s excitement, even in curiosity. 

Theon feels so much older than him, suddenly.

“Sorry, little lord,” Theon says without any real apology in his voice, “what news do you have?”

“Your sister, Yara, —” Robb seems ready to fly out of his own skin, “she’s leading a counter assault against your uncle. When your uncle threatened your mother and sister, your mother’s house called their banners to oppose him, and Yara has a faction to command. You never told me your sister was a warrior! She has a whole host of supporters.”

Theon blinks at him. “Does she?”

“She’s managed this long,” Robb adds. “Your mother’s family— Harlaw? They command a great deal of fealty amongst their captains, it would seem, and you and your sister are their blood. They have all declared for your sister against your uncle. There is rumour that they may even petition the throne for aid. Perhaps she stands a chance. Ironborn are a stubborn breed. Each man is worth ten mainlanders, you’ve always said.”

“Aye,” Theon says, dismissive, “but my uncle is not a mainlander, either. And he has twice as many men.”

News of his sister should cheer him. He knows that, but it only leaves a bitter weight in his chest. He should be with her, fighting. Perhaps together they could win the battle against Euron Greyjoy, though he doesn’t manage much hope for that. Alone, he’s sure Yara will fail.

It’s clear that Robb expects a more of a reaction as well, but all Theon manages is to lift the flagon of ale to his mouth and drink deeply. Robb frowns at him. He glances around Theon’s cell as if expecting something to change. Theon’s been doing that a lot the past few days, himself. He wonders what Robb expects it to become.

Finally, Robb offers, “We can’t be certain of how many men she —”

“Don’t tell me what I know, Stark,” Theon interrupts coolly. “Ironborn follow only the strong, and we do not take orders from women.”

Robb’s face is crestfallen. He and Theon have squabbled before, but this is inherently different, now. Theon has known it for near a week, but Robb, it seems, is only just now realizing. Theon is not a friend and confidant any longer. Theon is his prisoner. Robb could have him beat him for his insolence.

Of course, he doesn’t. He never would. Theon doubts Robb would hit him even if Theon were to strike first. Groaning, Theon drops his flagon and puts his head in his hands. The silence between them is smothering him. It used to be so simple, speaking to Robb. Robb who made him forget his captivity, who treasured him like a true brother. Never let silences linger between them this way before. It’s not fair. Maybe if Theon offered to speak of something else, it can be normal again. 

"I’m sorry,” he grumbles. It’s like swallowing glass, to apologize. He hates this, having to retract his every feeling. He wishes Robb would leave, but it would be too cruel to ask him to. “Is there any further news to share? What of your family?” 

Robb seems flabbergasted at the subject change, and only shrugs. 

Before he can stop himself, Theon adds, “How's Jon?"

Robb's bewilderment only deepens. "What?"

Theon shrugs, humiliated to feel a tightness in his throat. If he weeps in front of Robb, Theon is done for. It hasn't bothered him, being left all alone here. But thinking of Jon again for the first time in days makes him abruptly aware of the cold in a way he hadn't been, before.

"The little fool’s grown quite fond of me, recently,” he answers, hoping it sounds more flippant than he feels. “How's he taking my new status in the household? Must be a thrilled to no longer be sorriest pariah in the castle walls."

It's perhaps too cruel to say. Robb's face goes pale and contrite. "Is it so foolish to be fond of you, Theon? We're _all_ terrified. You're our brother."

It hurts to hear Robb say it now, like a barb in his heart. Robb has not called him that in some time. Not since Lord Stark had scolded him for calling Theon his brother in the Great Hall, in front of everyone awake to hear. 

That was so long ago now. It feels like centuries. The memory makes Theon scoff.

"What would Jon feel that the rest of us don't?” Robb asks, misunderstanding his dismissal. “Arya simply won’t speak to Father over this. Little Rickon asks the nursemaid of you every morning. He thinks you’ve gotten bored of him. Even Sansa has gone to Father begging your freedom. None of us think you belong here."

For a moment, Theon is quiet. He hadn't thought much of the younger children since being thrown in here. He hadn’t even thought the Stark girls cared for him enough to notice him missing.

Guilt stings in the corners of his eyes from the realization that they all may be frightened for him. But it’s too late to speak of such things now, with Robb regarding him so curiously.

"I thought Jon might come to see me," Theon admits finally, his voice hoarse. The words finally said aloud burn his throat, and he chokes. "Has he — has he asked of me?"

Robb doesn't seem to understand. His face is pinched, confused, and he frowns. "I hadn't... thought to invite him along. Nobody knows I'm here now, other than the guards outside."

"Oh."

For a long time, silence stretches. At last, Robb swallows, venturing, "Would you... would you like to see him?"

He sounds so shocked. Had Theon really been so cruel to Jon, before?

"It doesn't matter," Theon tells him after a moment. "If he has no desire to see me I'll not trouble him."

"Why..." leaves Robb's mouth before he can stop it, and Theon snorts. It’s almost a game, to think of all the questions he may want to ask. Why should Jon want to see him? Why would he ask about him? Why should it matter either way to Theon? 

Theon’s heart is hammering the ribs in his chest as he swallows. He’s been desperate to tell someone since word of his uncle had reached Winterfell, to admit what they’ve done together, just so that he doesn’t have to die with this secret. He can’t just leave Jon alone with it.

"Tell him..." Theon sighs, his smile feeling heavy on his face, "tell him that I was a fool, and that he never would've lasted on the Iron Islands, anyway."

Robb's eyes widen at that. "What are you talking about?"

Something of his shock is hilarious, and a laugh like a dog's bark leaves Theon's mouth. Perhaps he's going mad alone down here after all.

"I'm so sorry, Robb," he says finally, flinching at the way the word cracks on his tongue. It’s a struggle, to pull himself onto his feet after sitting on the hard stone for so long, but he should be eye-to-eye with Robb, telling him this. 

"Truly, I am sorry. You're my brother, as are little Bran and Rickon. And your sisters… I see them as much my kin as they are yours. That's all true. But Jon..." He tastes salt on his tongue, unable to hold his tears back any longer. He swallows hard and turns his head and struggles to steady his breath. "Robb... Jon is — Jon is just mine."

Robb’s voice is dry, and shudders when he asks again, “What?”

“I…” Words fail him, and Theon looks at his feet. Fear is bitter in his mouth, a sharp lump in his throat. “I hadn’t meant to — I…” 

Theon chances a look at Robb, but flinches away in an instant. Stricken, his river blue eyes burning in his face. 

“Please don’t — don’t be angry, Robb.” Theon feels like a child. “It wasn’t — it wasn’t like that. How I am with… with the tavern girls and the whores. I did right by him, honest.”

“What — what are you saying?”

Robb’s voice strikes something brave inside him, and Theon manages to meet Robb’s eyes. He doesn’t look angry; merely confused. “Listen, be — be gentle with him, when I’m gone. Don’t let him despair over it. He’s — he’s more tender than he lets on, you know he is. I don’t want him faulting himself for it.”

Robb stares at him for so long, Theon has to drop his gaze again. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “Truly. I never meant… I would have never, if he hadn’t…”

Theon is still looking at the stone floor when he hears the scrape of Robb’s boots. He flinches, expecting to be struck, or thrown against the wall, but only looks up to see Robb slamming the barred door shut behind him.

“Robb, don’t,” Theon croaks, racing to reach through the iron bars, but Robb moves too quickly to touch, and disappears up the steps without a word. When he shakes the bars, the weight of the bolt keeps them steady in place.

So he hadn’t forgotten, after all.

That night, much like all the others since the raven came from Pyke, Theon crumples, and with no one there is witness his shame, weeps himself to sleep.


	4. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit early because it's NW_snow's birthday and I thought why not. :3 Enjoy

It’s late. Nearly midnight, at least. Jon is not asleep, doesn’t think he could. He had not ventured down to the hall for dinner, and when a serving girl had arrived at his room with a tray of roast perch and stewed lentils, he thanked her but left it on his table untouched. Jon had spent the interim time pacing, chasing the same thoughts around his room. 

When pacing grows tiresome, Jon sits at his desk, head in his hands. It has been a week that Theon has been imprisoned, but to Jon it may as well be a lifetime. The waiting is torture. Not knowing if the next day, the next sunrise, will see word arrive from the capital that Theon’s life is forfeit. As if Jon could fend off that news by standing vigil throughout the night. 

The knock on Jon’s door is loud, heavy, jolting him from his sulking. Jon wipes hastily at his eyes before standing to answer it. Panic surges in his chest. It sounds as if it could be guardsmen. Or Father. Perhaps he’s learned of his indecency with Theon. Perhaps he’s come to sentence them both to death. Strangely, the thought brings him a sense of calm. At least the waiting will be done with.

When Jon swings the door open, it’s only the heartbroken face of his brother.

“Jon…”

Robb looks so staggered that for a moment Jon can’t entertain what he might be doing here. He swallows, forcing his mouth into a grim, hard line. For a moment, they face one another in silence. Robb’s face is strange, scanning for something.

Finally, Jon forces out, “What’s happened? Is something the matter?”

“Nothing,” Robb answers, shaking his head, breathing hard. The relief makes Jon lightheaded, the grip on his door tightening, but Robb is still eying him intensely. “It’s just… Jon, have you kept something from me? About — about Theon?”

Jon’s blood goes cold. Too stunned to deny it, he only asks, “What?” 

Robb’s brow furrows. He knows. He knows and he’s furious. Revolted. His own brother is a whore-bred catamite and his friend had helped himself to him all behind Robb's back. Jon feels terror roil in his stomach. How did anyone find out? They had been careful, hadn’t they? Jon hasn’t gone down to see Theon once, since he’d been locked in the dungeons. What point was there, for him to sit wallowing up in his room alone if someone has known all along?

“Jon…” Robb’s voice cuts through the silence like a blade, “Jon, I know about the two of you. I don’t — I didn’t ask how long, or what exactly… but I know.”

Sick crawls up Jon’s throat as he shakes his head. He’ll deny it now. Even in futility. There’s no way Robb knows it for fact, and if he were to find out, he’ll tell Father. And Theon will surely be put to death, then. Theon had told Jon as much himself. 

“What — what’re you —?” He rapidly blinks tears back from his eyes and takes a step back from the door.

“Jon…”

“It’s not true,” Jon manages. Theon’s always told him he’s a terrible liar. “It’s not. It’s just — a filthy lie, nothing more. Slander. Whoever said it is only saying it to have Greyjoy killed. As if he isn’t already being kept like a common criminal in —”

“Jon, it was Theon.”

Jon’s ears begin to ring. “What?”

“Theon… it was Theon, who told me,” Robb says slowly. 

Jon shakes his head, though he’s not sure what he means it in response to. It can’t be true. Theon would never admit to what they’ve done. Not unless he truly believes he’ll die for his uncle’s crimes. 

That realization, that Theon is certain he is going to die, crashes into Jon so hard it feels like a physical weight, and he staggers backward half a step. 

“I — no…”

“Jon, it’s — it’s true?”

His brother reaches out a hand, gripping Jon by the shoulder. Jon doesn’t know if he nods in confirmation, but his throat is pulled so tight that it’s effort to push every word past his teeth. 

“I promised him — I promised him I’d keep him _safe._ ”

Relief of Robb’s forgiving, gentle touch mixes with crippling fear. If Theon is so sure of his own doom, what hope does Jon have of aiding him? The flurry of emotion is dizzying, and Jon stumbles forward. Robb allows him, wrapping his arms around Jon’s back, holds him tight, and Jon buries his face into the fur of Robb's cloak with a deep, steadying breath.

“Oh, Jon, why didn’t — why didn’t you _tell_ me? I’m your brother. I thought we had no secrets between us. You must’ve known —”

Jon shakes his head. “You know that I couldn’t.” 

He won’t admit one of the reasons being Robb’s stern southern mother and her strict, prudish gods. It would break his brother’s heart to know how much both Jon and Theon dread a woman so dear to him. After everything Robb has had to learn of them, it’s only fair to keep that last secret from him. 

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, shaking in Robb’s hold. 

“Jon — Jon, it’s alright. Come now, please don’t cry, it’s going to be alright.”

That is an assurance he cannot make, but having him hold onto Jon after knowing everything Jon has done is like a dam crumbling apart. The sob finally releases from his throat, and Jon hides his face in shame.

“I’m such a coward, Robb. I told him I’d protect him,” Jon babbles foolishly. Robb clicks his tongue as he sits Jon at the carved wooden chair beside his desk. “I told him that — that if this ever happened… if it ever came to this, that I’d — I wouldn’t leave him alone, that I would stand for him, and now I’ve — I’ve _lied..._ ”

Sighing, Robb leans against Jon’s desk. “I can’t imagine Theon put much stock in such promises, anyway,” he says with a pitiful attempt at a smile.

A flash of anger bubbles up inside him, and Jon snaps without meaning to. “You’re wrong.”

Robb’s eyes widen for a moment before he looks away. Embarrassed or upset, Jon can’t tell. 

Jon wipes his hand across his face and swallows, trying to steady himself with a deep breath. “I wanted to go. I did. But I was a coward — I thought he might be angry, if I… if I went to see him.”

Robb looks up at that. “Why?”

“It was a secret,” Jon reminds him, oddly annoyed that he has to ask. “I thought perhaps if I went to see him alone that it would be too suspicious and he’d… he’d pay for it.”

Robb doesn’t say anything at all, then.

“I was a coward and now he’s… I gave my word to him I wouldn’t let —” Tears come again and Jon falls silent. He wipes furiously at his face, and Robb frowns.

“When did…” Robb flounders, awkward. He clears his throat before asking, “How — how long have you — the two of you… how long have you kept this a secret?”

It’s jarring, to see how uneasy Robb is. Jon always assumed his brother was somewhat aware of Theon’s tastes, with how close they are. For a moment, he forgets to answer.

“It was after…” Jon feels as if he’s kept it a secret his whole life. It takes him a moment to decide which moment Robb means to know. “About year ago. A little more. The night of your tavern brawl, when the two of you came home beaten to seven hells from Smalljon Umber and his guardsmen.” Robb flinches, remembering, and Jon swallows. “We — we laid together that next day.”

It shocks Robb, somehow. His face pales, as if forgetting anything he’d prepared to say. After a few seconds of silence, he finally manages, “Oh.”

He doesn’t know what to do now. Jon assumes he wants to ask more questions, so he offers, “I had asked him to kiss me just before. On my nameday.”

“ _Did_ he?”

Robb sounds so flabbergasted that Jon can’t help but smile as he nods, even as tears still rip at the back of his throat. He’d always assumed Robb and Theon had no secrets, other than his dalliance with Jon. He’s not sure what to think, knowing Robb has never known Theon to be sweet and gentle. Part of him is angry. Surely for Robb to not see it means he simply paid his closest friend no real attention. But that is unfair; Jon knows firsthand how well Theon is at playing a part, adopting a role. How hard he worked to hide his heart. 

And another part of Jon — a selfish part — is happy to think that side of Theon perhaps belongs to Jon alone.

But even that silly joy feels bitter at the back of his throat. Theon had trusted Jon, and Jon has left him alone to rot beneath the Great Keep. Jon stares at the candle burning low on his desk, avoiding his brother’s face.

“Robb…” His brother doesn’t answer, still mulling over Jon’s confessions, but Jon knows he’s listening, anyway. “How is he? Is he afraid?”

There’s no answer, and Jon braves a look at his brother. Jon hadn’t noticed before how sunken Robb’s eyes look, how ashen his face, the several days worth of beard, still patchy in places along his jaw. He wonders how long it’s been since Robb has slept through the night himself. Theon is his closest friend, and now Father has him imprisoned, threatened with execution. Jon feels guilty, suddenly, that in all his self-pity, he never thought to comfort his brother either.

“Father won’t hurt him, Jon.” Robb says finally. 

It’s not an answer. They both know that. But Jon nods.

Silence passes between them. The magnitude of the revelation settling over them. Words push at the back of Jon’s teeth, but he’s too shy to speak them. He’d always wished he could tell Robb. In time, he had planned to, somehow. But never in a circumstance like this. He wishes he could talk about what they’ve done without the weight of dread on his chest.

Perhaps able to sense his brother's desire to share, Robb ventures, “What — what was it that happened?”

It isn’t the question Jon is expecting, and he squints. “What?”

“To bring you two together, I mean,” Robb clarifies, face turning pink. “It’s just that — I’d always thought that the two of you — you used to be so vicious to one another. Fought like two cats in a barn.”

At first, Jon opens his mouth to tell him everything, but guilt gets the better of him, and he snaps his mouth shut again. It would not do well for Robb to hear how alone they both feel, how alienated from Winterfell for either reason that they have. 

He looks nervously at his hands and says instead, “It was… it was almost a game, at first. At least to Theon, it was. We were young. Boys, still. He enjoyed confounding me with kindness, when I expected mockery. But even then, I never hated him, not really. I didn’t always like him, perhaps, and sometimes he can still be crass and bullheaded and I want to throttle him. It’s just that… we competed, I suppose, when we were children. Had it in our heads that we were competing for the same thing. There was only ever room for one of us, it seemed, in Winterfell. The castle could allow room for one foundling but not two, so we tried to push one another out of the nest, in case anyone else ever caught wise to that fact. We wanted to save ourselves. But Theon is kind to me, when there’s no there to see it. He doesn't like others to see. Like he’s afraid they’ll see him and realize he’s a fraud. That it's all an act. Even when we were boys, though, I don’t think he ever hated me, either.”

There is more to say, but Robb has fallen silent. Perhaps he doesn’t want to know anything further. Perhaps the specifics revolt him. Jon stares at his fingers shaking in his lap and decides to change the subject.

“Is he —” The question sticks in Jon’s throat, a garbled cough cutting his words short. Robb reaches out and puts a hand over Jon’s own in silent comfort. “Is he angry with me?”

Squinting, Robb opens his mouth, but Jon keeps speaking. If he keeps speaking, Robb won’t tell him the answer Jon already knows. If he keeps speaking, he can avoid dissolving into tears like a girl again. 

“I wanted — I wanted to see him. I did. I almost went, that first night, but I knew I'd be turned away, knew it would be suspicious that I would try to defy Father's order for him. And I’ve thought every night, but I — I didn’t want — I thought someone might realize, and I —”

“He’s not angry,” Robb insists finally, talking over Jon with a sharp squeeze of his fingers. “He’s not. He’s in as good of spirits as could be hoped. He asked for you.” 

Relief is like a weight lifting from Jon’s back. If Theon had asked for him, then that is where he will go.

He jumps to his feet and begins to pull out his warm cloak, his boots, begins to dress for the outdoors, but Robb grabs him by the shoulders. “Where are you going?”

“To the dungeons,” Jon answers frankly. If Theon asked for him, that’s where he should be.

“It's the middle of the night. And the guards will see you,” Robb reminds him. “You mentioned you wanted to keep it a secret.”

Jon frowns. Now that Robb knows, it’s easy to forget that others will not be as understanding. “But he — he asked for me.”

Robb tilts his head. “You don’t want it getting around that you went to visit him, do you? Late at night, after I’ve left?” For a moment, Jon thinks he’s trying to dissuade him from ever seeing Theon again. Something thick and black tightens in Jon’s chest until Robb adds in a hush, “We must be clever about this.”

“I’m allowed to go visit him now as well, aren’t I?” Jon asks stubbornly, “just as you are. Perhaps before it would’ve seemed too eager, but — but it’s been long enough now.”

Robb’s face crumples, and he pats gently at Jon’s hair. “If you’ve waited this long, the guards might take notice. They report to Father whenever I pay him a visit. I know Jory overhears what we’ve discussed before.”

Of course his brother is right, Jon knows that, but it’s so unfair that he is. Why had it been so important to the two of to seem so resentful of each other among the rest of the castle? Perhaps when they were squabbling boys, but they’re practically men grown now, and never rivalled with one another other with the vitriol they had put on in front of the others. What had possessed them to maintain such a childish act, then?

“He _asked for me,_ ” Jon repeats helplessly, as if it justifies everything. “I can’t — I can’t leave him alone. Not anymore, not as I have done.”

With a sigh, Robb leans back against Jon’s desk. “We’ll think of something,” he says, “something clever, so that the guards don’t notice you.”

Think of something? Jon can’t think of anything. His mind only focuses on Theon, and how alone and hopeless he must’ve felt to openly admit everything to Robb. When this whole affair had started between them Theon had begged Jon to keep it secret from everyone, and now he is the one who speaks of it so freely. How desperate he must be to see Jon before whatever is to become of him. 

Jon’s throat goes tight at the thought. He cannot allow himself to believe Father would kill him. Theon will not die for this, he can’t. Jon won’t allow it.

“Jon?”

Startled, Jon looks up. “Sorry, I — I was thinking.”

Robb’s face twists into a sad sort of smile, drooping at the ends. Jon inspects him, unsure what the look means, but it’s only on Robb’s face for a moment before he takes a deep breath and says, “We can distract the guards.”

Jon frowns. Stark guards have always seemed unflappable. He’s unsure what two boys could accomplish to make them forget their charge.

“I’ve got an idea,” Robb says finally. “Something Theon has pulled before, actually, to slip past the guards at night. Farlen retires from the kennels soon, and the dogs are unminded in the night. In about an hour’s time, we can — we can try something.”

As Robb tells of his plan, Jon only frowns. It sounds like ridiculous hijinks from a child's in a children’s bedtime story. 

When he says as much to Robb, Robb straightens his back with an air of confidence and says, “Unless you think of something better I see no reason not to try.”

Pouting, Jon grumbles, “We might be caught.”

“Aye, how so? Dogs get loose all the time, there's nothing sinister or suspicious about it. Perhaps the gate to the kennels hadn’t locked so tightly as he left for the night. No reason to think it’s any fault of ours. And the kennels aren’t far from the entrance to the dungeon. The guards will see the dogs loose and have to contain them so they don't wreak havoc.”

Robb has a point, and Jon feels foolish for arguing.

“Alright,” Jon admits. Even getting caught doesn’t sound as bad a fate as never seeing Theon again. “Let’s try.”

Outside, the night is so quiet that Jon is sure everyone in the castle can hear their footsteps as they pick their way along the castle wall on outskirts of the courtyard toward the kennels. As if two thieves, they sneak along the inner wall, keeping away from the torchlight. There’s not even a breeze to rustle over the trees to hide their sounds. Jon holds his breath as he walks, as if he were trespassing, terrified that perhaps Farlen is still down tending to the hounds.

The kennelmaster, Farlen, is a grim man. He has tended to the Winterfell kennels for as long as Jon can remember. As a boy, Jon was frightened of him. Large and grisley, with an ill-humour, not fond of children, or anyone else, it had seemed. No different an expression for the lord’s beaming sons than for the hounds he keeps. Robb however, seems to hold no wariness of him.

“He always leaves the keys hung up by the dogs,” Rob reminds him as they make their way to the entrance archway of the kennels. “Remember, he used to leave them on the floor when we were boys, til Bran was old enough to reach the locks.”

Jon does remember the time a curious, young Bran had freed the hounds, but the memory only makes his stomach run sour. He doesn’t go down to the kennels often — on hunts they’re always minded by handlers — but what is to say that old Farlen doesn’t mind his keys more closely nowadays?

“Well, what if tonight he didn’t?”

Robb scoffs. “You needn’t worry so much.”

Despite himself, Jon rolls his eyes. He sounds no better than Theon, careless and impulsive. And look at where Theon is now.

“ _Someone_ has to,” Jon grumbles to himself.

His brother turns to give him an exasperated look. “I suppose if you’re right we can just try _your_ plan,” he says with an edge. Jon has no plan, and Robb is clearly frustrated by the questioning. 

Shamed, Jon hangs his head.

For a moment, neither of them say anything.

“It will be alright, Jon,” Robb says for perhaps the fourth time in an hour. “If the keys aren’t there tonight, we'll go visit him together first thing in the morning. Theon could do to learn some patience, could he not?”

His brother is not skilled at comfort, and the joke only makes Jon a little sick.

Despite the long summer, there’s a chill in the air come nightfall, and Jon shivers as they reach the gated stone archway of the kennels. Beyond, in the dark interior, Jon can hear shuffling and snorting, smell the breath of the hunting dogs.

“No one’s about. It’s only the hounds,” Robb assures in a soft hush. “Come on.”

Thankfully, Robb is right, and the old kennelmaster Farlen is not to be seen, having left the keys hanging on a bent nail jutting out from a wooden post next to one of the gates. Farlen is a tall man, and Robb has to stand on his toes to snatch them down, but is quick to unlock the first kennel gate that holds four large hounds and then slip the ring of keys back onto the hook.

In an instant, the hounds in every kennel that had been settling down to sleep all begin to bark. The largest of the dogs behind the open gate bounds forward, pushing curiously at the grate with his nose, swinging the door open wide. The dog sniffs the ground cautiously, regarding Jon and Robb with alert ears and a wagging tail, before turning, galloping up the stairs and out into the yard.

Jon watches struck as the two bitches left behind follow after, and Robb grabs hold of his arm. “Come on,” he hisses, “we won’t have long.”

Robb pulls him up the short stairs to the open yard quickly and around the corner of the kennel building, behind a tree before they can be seen. From where they’re crouched, Jon can see the guards in the torchlight, outside the door that leads down to the dungeons, leaning on their polearms, appearing bored. He can’t tell who the guards are, from where he and Robb are hidden, but it still strikes Jon as strange and out of place, to see them their. As if Theon is someone who needs guarding. As if Theon is an enemy. 

It feels like an age before one of the men nudges the other and points at a large loping shadow that shakes a thicket of ivy growing up the nearby castle wall. They’re too far to see, but the yard is quiet, and their voices ring out clear when they speak.

“What was that?” Jon knows the voice now. Wayn sounds nervous. “You see that? Something moving out there. A wolf, you think?”

“This near the castle? Doubtful,” Porther answers him. “Wolves don’t care to be so nearby to folk. A fox, most like. Snuck in through cistern drain, most like.”

“Too big to be a fox, that,” Wayn answers. “Pretty sure that’s — hey…”

When the two other hounds run by, barking in play, both Wayn and Porther snap to attention.

“It’s the dogs,” Porther shouts, “the kennel dogs. They’re loose! Fucking seven hells, where’s Farlen?”

Wayn runs after one of the smaller ones and shouts, “Fetch the damned kennelmaster! The fuckin’ hounds have gotten loose. They'll kill the damn hens.”

Robb nudges Jon. “I told you,” he says with an air of pride. 

Jon has to admit he’s surprised, even when Porther and Wayn both disappear from view, attempting vainly to herd the dogs away from the pens of livestock and coops. 

“Come on then,” Robb grabs his arm and tugs, “we won’t have long. Let’s go.”


	5. Theon

There’s enough light from the torches outside his cell to seem like an afternoon in deep winter. Theon can recall winter days in the North, dim, grey, bleak, sundown before it had barely risen. 

That is what time in the dungeons is like. It’s hard to tell the hour of the day from the grated clerestory window, as half of it is blocked by an old unmelted clump of snow that lingers in the summer shadows, dirty and weeks old by now. The summer brings snowfalls less often, but there has been a light flurry just days before word from the Islands reached Winterfell. For a moment, Theon wonders if perhaps another has rolled through, while Theon has been trapped down here. They’re not so uncommon that it would be unreasonable. The idea makes him feel oddly lonely. He’d always complained about the snow before — whatever the season that brought it — but now he only wishes he could be outside throwing snowballs at little Bran and Rickon.

Theon picks disinterestedly at the food still on his plate from the supper dishes brought down from the guard some time ago. The guard had been very kind, one of the younger ones that Theon remembers drinking and dicing with at the Smoking Log several times, like he had with Alyn and Wayn. The lad had apologized for the circumstance, as had the guard who brought down his midday meal, as had the one who brought Theon his breakfast. 

Theon never quite knows what to say, when they glance apologetically, when they call him ‘Lord Greyjoy’ as they always have. Part of him wonders if would find it more palatable if they treated him differently. Like a prisoner. Like an enemy. They never would. Even the guards who don’t care much for Theon have been understanding. Most likely a rule of Lord Stark’s. Not that Theon would know. He hasn’t seen Lord Stark since he was first put down here. 

He wonders too, if that is a good omen or a bad one. 

Theon is pulled from his thoughts when he hears the bolt slide from his door. He wheels around, a flash of panic causing his vision to swim. It’s too early to be a guard, so it must be one of his uncle’s savage raider men, or perhaps Lord Stark himself, either one sent to kill him now, in the dead of night, before anyone could try to plead for Theon’s life. He swallows down a shout, ready to fight his uncle’s men, ready to plead Lord Stark’s forgiveness.

But instead it’s Robb standing in the open whicket of the iron grate, his eyes bright and soft, and Theon’s voice goes raw in his throat. “Robb —”

It stings, when Robb’s gaze flickers away. But there’s warmth in his expression. He may be a great many things, but he is not disgusted with Theon, and that’s all he’s left to hope for now.

Robb’s voice is quiet, when he speaks, as if talking to his boots. “I thought — I thought it’d help, if —”

Before Robb can finish, Jon barrels in from the shadows, shoving past Robb and throwing his arms around Theon’s neck. 

Theon gasps, air knocked from him, stumbling back to catch his weight, and relief washes over him so intensely he very nearly loses balance, regardless.

“ _Jon —_ ”

His own voice is drowned out by Jon’s babbling. A nervous stream of helpless apologies, all wet and muffled when mumbled against Theon’s woolen tunic. “Please, forgive me,” he says again and again, “I’m so — sorry. I promised — I _promised_ you.”

Laughter, oddly, is Theon's response. Jon has never felt so light in his arms. He circles them around Jon's back and squeezes, chuckles when Jon squeaks at his feet briefly leaving the floor. 

“Jon,” Theon says, his voice rough from disuse and all the tears he’s still too craven to admit to. “Oh, Jon, hush, stop bawling. It’s alright.”

Jon’s grip on his tunic is so unyielding that it’s several tries before Theon can tear him away enough to look at his face, blotchy red and streaked with tears. When Theon tries to laugh again, it comes out watery and quiet; not quite a laugh at all. He holds Jon's face, drags his thumb underneath Jon’s eye and tries to smile. It feels tight and awkward. He hopes it looks right, on his face.

“Gods, just look at you. You’re a mess, Snow.”

When Jon laughs in turn, it’s tense, edging on hysterical.

“I promised you,” Jon says again, and Theon raises his eyebrows, waiting for him to elaborate. Jon only swallows, his eyes welling over with tears again. His face is pallard and exhausted. “I gave my word that I’d keep you safe, and now you’re —”

“Gods,” Theon croaks, his voice cracking like glass. He swallows to compose himself before Jon or Robb notice. “You’re such an idiot, Snow. Enough bawling.”

When they were young, Jon may have shoved at him for that. Even more recently, he may have glared or snapped at him. But now, Jon doesn’t even notice the jape. Instead he just stands up on his toes to throw his arms around Theon’s neck again.

“Are you alright?” he asks into Theon’s skin. The way his lips brush against Theon’s neck makes the hairs at his nape stand on end. It feels as if Jon hasn’t touched him in years. “Is there — is there anything you need? I can help. I’ll bring you whatever I can. I’m — I’m not going to let… anything happen to you, I swear it.”

“Jon,” Theon whispers, “it’s alright, I’m alright.”

“Are you frightened?”

“No,” Theon lies easily.

“You’re shivering. Are you — are you cold?”

Theon laughs. “No more than usual for this frozen wasteland.”

Jon doesn’t find it funny. “I can bring down — some blankets. Your fur pelts.”

“Jon…”

“I should have thought to bring them to you,” Jon interrupts, his voice sheepish. “It’s freezing down here. I hadn’t thought — I didn’t think to bring anything.”

“Oh, hush,” Theon sweeps the sleeve of his tunic over Jon’s face. His heart is thundering in his chest. He wishes Jon would stop crying. “You brought plenty, Jon, look here.”

Jon always looks so young, when he cries. Fragile and small, like when they were boys. Even as he’s grown into a man over the summer, the broken little pout of his face, his strong brows knitting together always seems to Theon like the lost child he had been when they first met. It squeezes at Theon’s heart, to see him such a way. Tisking, Theon wipes the tears from his face again. Fresh ones seem to have stopped falling, if only for a moment, so Theon cups the sides of his face and smiles at him.

“There,” he says as cheerfully as he can manage. His heart still feels strained in his chest; beating too fast. Gods, he looks tired. “It’s good to see you.”

It’s perhaps the wrong thing to say. Tears start to well fresh in Jon’s eyes, but before Theon can comment, Jon buries himself back into Theon’s arms.

“Don’t be stupid,” Jon answers back, words muffled against Theon’s shoulder.

Laughing, Theon nests a hand in Jon’s hair and holds him close. The relief of it makes him feel faint. He had not realized until now just how much he was prepared to never see him again. Of course, he could never say such a thing to Jon. It would break his heart. Instead, Theon just presses a kiss to Jon’s hair. The smell of him turns Theon’s nerves alive; of warm linens and of the sun beating on a mossy stone. He’d never noticed the scent of him before. He breathes in deep, a soft sort of calm rolling over him.

In his arms, Jon struggles to suppress a yawn. Theon has no idea of the hour down here. He wonders if the three of them should be asleep by now.

Robb hasn’t said a word since Jon entered Theon’s cell, but the weight of his gaze has been heavy as shackles. Finally, Theon looks up to see him staring. Robb's is face is soft and curious until he catches Theon watching him, and he smiles hastily and looks away.

“Robb —” 

Theon’s not sure what to say to him. He’s never seen Robb look so out of place before. It’s strange, to see it on the heir of Winterfell.

“We made sure no one saw us,” Robb says without looking at them. “The guards shouldn’t be back to check on you until morning, so I thought perhaps you’d — I could give the two of you a — a moment, if you wish for me to leave.”

“Robb…”

“There’s no shame in it,” Robb assures softly, his face turning pink. “I won’t — I’ll just be —”

“Robb, stop.” Jon shudders in his arms, a long, stabling breath, and he turns out of Theon's arms to face his brother. “Stay. It’s alright. Everything is alright. Thank — thank you.”

Robb shakes his head. His eyes are wide and wet. “Had you — had you thought I would be so unable to understand?”

The question pushes cruelly on Theon’s shoulders as Jon shivers against him. Avoiding an answer, he sits back on the straw mattress pressed against the wall, and Jon sinks down next to him, legs fold up beside himself, leaning heavy against Theon. Robb doesn’t look at them. He’s not disgusted, Theon thinks, but he’s not sure how else to react, either.

“It’s not like that, Stark,” Theon says gently. 

He’s not sure what it _is_ like, really. He hadn’t been afraid of Robb finding out, not truly. He can’t imagine Jon was, either. Perhaps Jon has already said his piece, to Robb, explained himself. He surely offers no explanation now, face pressed to Theon’s neck. Theon’s fingers comb light through Jon’s black hair, tension bleeding off of him from nothing more than the touch. His heart feels lighter, with Jon here. His fear lessens. He’s never felt such a fool, but has never before cared less, either.

“I don’t understand,” Robb says, finally looking Theon in the eye. “Why, Theon? Why didn’t you — why didn’t you tell me?”

At that, Theon is the one to look away. He looks so hurt, his voice crumbling. They’ve always been so close.

“You — Robb. You know why.”

And really, it seems, Robb doesn’t. 

“Because you were worried that I would think the less of you?” he says. “That I would turn on the both of you? Over this?”

 _Yes._ “Can you blame me, Stark? Your southern gods don’t allow for it. And you are so protective of your brother, here. I am not of the misapprehension that you would favour me over him. Is it so unbelievable that we would not want the eldest son and heir to think us depraved sinners?”

“I am _not_ a southerner,” declares Robb in a grave voice.

That silences Theon. It was wrong of him to say.

Even Jon looks away from his brother.

“My mother’s gods have no say over my love for you, Theon,” he answers coolly, “nor my love for Jon. I keep the old gods as well, and I am of the North, a son of the First Men, just like the two of you are. The Faith has no rightful say over what Jon does, and just as it has no say over what you do.”

“Aye,” Theon whispers, “that’s all true.”

“Well then why is it?” Robb snaps. “Theon — you’re my _brother._ ”

“But I’m not,” Theon says softly, “not truly, Stark, you know that. If I were, I’d not be down here now.”

Jon goes tense against him. Robb’s expression turns hard. After a moment, the anger leaves Robb with a deep sag of his shoulders and he sighs.

“I’m sorry,” Robb says at last.

“There’s no need,” Theon assures him, absently rolling a dark curl around his finger. “It was not you who put me here.” He doesn’t mean it to sound that way, leaving his mouth, and shakes his head before Robb or Jon can argue. “Though I hold nothing against your father, either. He’s only doing what’s just, what the king commands of him.”

Jon shuffles with a sigh, lays his head on Theon’s shoulder. 

It’s a little strange, with Robb watching them, but Theon hadn’t let himself hope of ever seeing Jon again, and it no longer matters as it once had, if Robb sees. He wishes, foolishly, that he had drummed up the courage to tell Robb long ago, after he and Jon first laid together in the godswood. Years ago, he had told Robb of his own first there, a pretty girl from the kitchens, and had smiled when Robb had blushed and scolded him for being a letcher, but that had been nothing, even at the time. Merely boyish curiosity, desperate to rid himself of inexperience. Theon had felt more, since; briefly fallen now and again for tavern girls and even, shamefully, for whores. But he’d never been able to share any of that part with Robb. Always too embarrassed. 

Seeing Robb now, he feels abruptly stripped bare. Too obvious. Exposed. His whole heart presented for ridicule. It should terrify him as it always has for anyone to see him like that, but Theon is too exhausted for shame. Holding Jon tightly in his arms, he feels as strong as he had days prior, when he walked amongst the Starks like one of them.

It takes Theon by surprise when, several moments of quiet on, he realizes Jon has dozed off in his arms. He snores quietly, and Theon and Robb exchange an amused look. How poorly Jon must be sleeping, it breaks Theon’s heart. 

Frowning, he curls Jon closer to his chest, pressing a kiss to his hair.

“You never told me,” Robb whispers, his voice low, “that you liked boys, too. Did you truly think I’d be repelled, if I knew?”

“No,” Theon answers easily. It hadn’t been that. “I mean, when we were young, mayhaps. It’s not a… welcome taste, not for young lords. It felt shameful, being raised among mainlanders. Hearing the way they all mocked and scorned those boys working in the winter town brothel. Didn’t know at the time how many of those same men slipped off to visit those boys in the night. As I grew, learned more of the ironborn and how they saw it…” He shrugs. “It never seemed important, until it was.”

Robb lets out a sigh, and Theon’s eyes meet his for a moment. It’s relief on his face, to know it wasn’t all a secret out of fear, to know it wasn’t shame that kept him from sharing things with Robb. At least not everything. 

He doesn’t keep Robb’s gaze long, dropping his eyes to watch Jon sleep again.

Gods, he’s so beautiful when he sleeps.

Careful not to wake him, Theon pets back the flyaway curls from Jon’s face. He’d not let himself think on Jon longer than the span of a breath, down here. It would drive him mad, he knew it. But seeing him now, Theon can almost forget his fate, trapped underneath the Great Keep of Winterfell, a prisoner, a war prize. It doesn’t matter now. It will again, once he’s gone, but Theon lets himself pretend for just a moment that Jon will stay beside him.

“Theon?” Theon looks up to Robb watching him anxiously, his eyes searching. “Can I ask — can I ask you…”

Theon waits, surprised to see Robb swallow hard as if holding back tears. 

“He never told — told me anything. I thought we had no secrets, me and Jon, but he — even when I came to him after you told me, he tried to deny it.”

Theon scoffs, but keeps his voice low. “Did he? Was he any good at it?”

Even shaking his head, Robb doesn’t smile. He sees no humor in his brother lying to him. Theon makes a face, feeling guilty, and doesn’t interrupt again.

“I didn’t know how to ask him. I didn’t know…” Robb frowns. “Is it just boys for him? Has he only been with you?”

Defensiveness twitches at the base of Theon’s skull. “No,” he says shortly.

“No to — to which?”

“Both.”

Incredulous, Robb narrows his eyes. “What? Who — who else has there been?”

“Perhaps pose these questions to your brother, instead,” Theon grumbles, feeling protective. Jon has always been so afraid of being considered a whore, of betrayal the baser qualities of his bastard blood, perhaps he may not want Robb knowing he’s laid with more than one partner. “Forgive me, but I won’t betray his confidence to you. It’s not mine to share. He likes girls plenty, if it really concerns you. He just fears making bastards, is all. You must understand that, Stark.”

Robb’s eyes turn mournful, and he drops his gaze. “I do.”

“He’d not kept it from you to be cruel or dishonest,” Theon assures, the look on Robb’s face making him tender. “He — when this started… it was me. I told him not to say anything to you or your father.”

Robb’s face twists. “ _You_ told him not to —”

“Don’t, Stark, it wasn’t — it wasn’t like that. We weren’t afraid of you.” He sighs. “Not... not really. I just…” He looks back at Jon, curled asleep against his shoulder, and takes a deep breath before meeting Robb’s eyes again. “What would you have done, had you known?”

Robb’s face softens. “What?”

“If we’d told you, or if you saw us, and you’d learned of it before now. How would it have seemed? What would you have thought? What might you have done? What would have happened to me, for taking your favourite brother into my bed?”

“I…” Robb frowns. He looks at his hands. “I don’t know.”

For a moment, Theon lets the answer hang between them.

“That’s why. I’d only wanted to keep him safe. Only that. And to keep my own neck off the execution block.” Theon laughs, then, hollow and bitter. “For all the good it’s done.”

“Don’t say that,” Robb scolds quietly. He’s still looking at his hands bunched in tight fists on his knees.

Shamed, Theon falls quiet and goes back to watching Jon sleep. His hand twitches, knotted tight in Theon’s tunic. For a long while, there is silence. Theon isn’t sure what to say, and Robb seems too stunned to speak further.

Finally, Robb manages, “You — you said you do right by him.”

“I do.”

Robb nods. His face is pink. Theon knows what he wants to ask. Knows Robb is too green to know much of anything, and wants to ask every question he’d never asked Theon before. He’s too shy to ever manage to ask — especially not now that he knows Theon lays with his brother — but Theon knows all the hows and whys that sit on the tip of his tongue.

“I’ve not got much to my word, I know that,” Theon says quietly, “certainly not in comparison to you and your lot. But right now my word is all I have, and I promise you, I would never do anything to hurt him, nor dishonour him.”

It seems to shock Robb, even now, that he says it, and Theon smirks. 

“Aye, I warned you that my word’s not much.”

“I believe you,” Robb insists with a hesitant smile. “It’s just a surprise.”

Theon scoffs. It would be. He doesn’t say anything else, and watches Jon dead asleep against him. He’s so warm, Theon feels the chill bleed out of him. He’s no need for his wolf pelts, with Jon curled in his lap.

“Theon?”

Theon looks up from Jon’s face to see Robb staring at him. “Mm?”

“What changed?”

For a moment, Theon thinks to play dumb, but he knows fully what Robb means to ask. Even Jon questioned Theon’s lechery. _“You never keep the same one for long,”_ he’d told Theon at the inn. His reputation has never been a secret.

“I don’t know,” Theon answers honestly, “but it has.”

They sit in silence for a moment before Theon realizes Robb and Jon can’t stay down here much longer. The guards will come down to check on him soon. They should depart before they are seen. 

It’s like a blade between his ribs, to wake Jon. Theon jostles him gently, shaking Jon by the shoulder. Jon huffs and curls closer into Theon before coming to his senses and he realizing where he is, and Theon takes his chin in his hand.

“Get upstairs to your chambers, Snow. It’s late; you need your sleep.”

“Here,” Jon grumbles sleepily, burrowing into Theon’s neck, “with you.”

“No, Jon,” he says gently. A sick sort of weight lands in Theon’s stomach as he realizes if there were a way he could keep Jon down here to sleep beside him in this filthy, freezing dungeon, he would do it. “Don’t be daft. It’s alright, I’ll see you again soon. I’m not — I’m not going anywhere, am I?”

He means it as a joke but Jon only frowns at him.

“I can’t sleep at night,” Jon says. 

Neither can Theon, but he won’t admit such things. Nervous, he presses a kiss to Jon’s forehead. In the same instant, he remembers Robb, and their eyes lock. Perhaps for the first time in his life, Robb looks so plainly like he doesn’t belong. Shy, Theon drops his eyes and pulls away.

“It’s alright,” Robb says, trying against all sense to be polite. “I — truly. I can…”

“Robb, no —”

“Theon?” Both he and Robb go quiet when Jon speaks up, voice still rough with sleep. “I’d like… I would like a moment, if it’s alright. Just — just a brief one. Please.”

Heart abruptly in his throat, Theon swallows. His eyes find Robb, who is already standing.

“I’ll — I’ll be just — I’ll wait at the top of the stairs for you, then.” 

“Robb, wait —” Theon sits up, and Jon shuffles off of him to let him stand. He squeezes Jon’s wrist, a quick and steady comfort, before he clears the distance between himself and Robb, and throws his arms over his shoulders. “Thank you.”

Robb’s body goes stiff underneath him for just a moment, and then he laughs. It’s not uncommon for Theon to embrace him, but perhaps doing so in front of Jon now that he knows what’s become of them makes Robb uncomfortable, because he nervously shirks out of his grip. 

Stung, Theon drops his arms to his sides, but Robb shakes his head.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Robb says shyly. “I should — I just want… to help.”

Robb hugs him then, quick, before letting go and turning on his heel. “I’ll be at the top of the stairs, Jon,” he calls back, easing the barred door shut behind him. “Don’t dally. We’ll need to be careful, getting back.”

The two of them watch Robb bound up the steps before Jon breaks the silence. “I want to stay here.”

“Jon, enough, you can’t,” Theon says with a tisk, closing the distance between them and taking a seat on his straw bed. “Someone’s bound to notice you missing. The guards come down to check on me in the morning, and once when they change shifts at midnight. If they see you down here that will be the end for both of us.”

“I know that I can’t. I still want to. I’ve not — I’ve not slept since word came from the Iron Islands, since Father sent you down here,” Jon admits finally. “When he told me what happened I could barely breathe. And then tossing and turning until dawn. And when I do manage to sleep it’s always to — to terrible dreams…”

“Oh, hush,” Theon pulls Jon to him, and Jon crawls defiantly into his lap. “You’ve nothing to worry over. Your father is a noble man, the most honourable man in all seven kingdoms. He’ll do nothing to harm me.”

Surprisingly, Jon’s response to that is to scoff. “You don’t eat, down here.”

“I eat plenty.”

“You _don’t_. Jory told Robb that most of the guards bring up untouched plates at the end of the night.” He sniffles, dragging his hand over his face. “Robb said last — last time he was down here, all you had done was drink your wine and ale. He’s — worried. Jory, too.”

“Jon —”

“You’re — you’re not a good liar, either. Did you know that?” Offended, Theon bristles, but Jon shakes his head. “You _are_ scared. And cold. And I can’t — stand it.”

“Shh, hush now,” Theon bundles him close, burying his face in Jon’s hair. He breathes in the smell of him again, warm moss on a stone. He’ll miss it, when he’s gone. “It’s alright, Jon. It’s —”

“ _No, it’s not,_ ” Jon chokes, shivering, and it feels almost as if he’s trying to bury himself under Theon’s skin. “It’s not alright. Your father was _murdered!_ You’re imprisoned. The king might order you executed. I — I need you. I can’t —”

Throat tight, Theon squeezes him close. “Hush, Jon,” he murmurs into his hair. “The guards haven’t taken my dinner up yet. I’ll eat. I promise you. You can come see me whenever you’d like. Bring Robb, no one would think it strange that Robb would want your company. I’ll eat. It’s alright.”

Jon’s trembling slows, but he doesn’t let go of Theon’s tunic.

“Jon…” Theon wraps his fingers around Jon’s hand and squeezes. “You needn’t worry over me down here. There’s no point in us both wallowing, is there?”

“Fine,” Jon answers snappishly, “so it’ll fall to me then, won’t it? To worry for the both of us.”

Perhaps it isn’t meant to be a joke, but it amuses Theon enough that he laughs. Laughs for the first time in days. It starts as a quiet little scoff that builds until it leaves him in a snort. Jon glares at him, but Theon can see him struggling not to smile.

“You’re such a brat,” Theon scolds him teasingly, tugging gently at his hair. When Jon smiles at that, Theon feels weight lift from his bones. “Get back to your brother, would you? Before I’m sick of you.”

Jon doesn’t respond, and for a moment Theon thinks he may have jested too cruelly, but instead Jon only tightens his grip on him and presses a kiss to Theon’s lips.

It overwhelms him in an instant. Theon doesn’t mean to seize Jon’s shoulders quite so tightly. Hears him release a soft breath against the kiss as Theon pulls him closer. He’d not thought he’d have this chance again, to taste him. It feels like a breath of air after drowning, and Theon is desperate for it, drinking him in. Jon only melts against him, fingers wrung tight in the fabric of Theon’s tunic. Perhaps, Theon thinks, madly, he can keep Jon down here after all. Perhaps Robb can explain why he’s missing, something believable, and Theon can hide him amongst his things when the guards come.

The silly thought dissolves when they break apart, and Theon feels ridiculous for having it cross his mind at all. Jon is staring at him with his mournful dark eyes and for a moment Theon wonders if he perhaps mumbled it aloud.

“I’m yours, Theon,” Jon says frankly. It’s too big a declaration in this dark, cramped cell. Theon’s face burns hot, and he wonders if it’s light enough for Jon to see. “And you’re mine. Do not forget. I’ll do whatever I can to see you free.”

At a loss, Theon nods.

“Your —” Theon’s voice is hoarse and quiet, and he has to clear his throat, “your brother’s waiting for you, Snow.”

“Aye,” Jon nods. He presses another kiss to Theon’s mouth, chaste this time, before hopping down from Theon’s lap. “I’ll bring your quilts and wolf pelts down in the morning. With Robb. And I won't be swayed from it. You can say you don’t need them all you want, but I still—”

“Jon,” Theon interrupts softly, trying not to laugh. “Thank you. I’d be glad for it.”

At that, Jon smiles. They watch each other for a moment in the stillness before Jon turns around and swings open the barred door.

Theon keeps his eyes down, as Jon disappears up the steps. He’s worried it may hurt, to watch him leave. The silence that follows is colder, more brutal, for the loss of them. Theon lifts his barely touched dinner plate from the floor and sets it in his lap, eating dutifully. The meat churns slightly in his stomach, after several days of more ale than food, but it stays down, and Theon feels a little less pitiful, once he’s finished.


	6. Jon

By morning, Jon has barely slept at all. He gives up trying some time after daybreak and instead dresses, pacing around his room the whole while. To keep his hands still, flexes and clenched his fingers into fists. There is an uncontainable itch within him. Oddly excited, he goes to Robb’s door and hammers on it until Robb answers, bleary-eyed and half-dressed.

“Wh — Jon?”

“You have to come with me,” Jon says firmly. “It will seem odd if I go alone so early.”

Robb is still too sleep-addled to know what Jon is saying. “Go where?”

“I’m taking Theon his quilts and pelts,” Jon tells him. “It’s freezing down there. You have to help me carry them, so it’s not suspicious.”

At the mention of Theon’s name, Robb seems to rattle himself awake. “Right,” he answers, rubbing sleep from his eye. “Right, let me just — give me a moment. I need to dress.”

Jon steps into his bedchamber to wait, and Robb shuffles to his wardrobe for fresh clothes. 

“Sorry,” Robb says, not facing him as he changes from his bedclothes, “I’d not really thought.”

Jon chews on his lip. It had kept him awake most of the night, the thought of Theon cold and drunk, huddled on straw. In the few scattered fits of sleep he managed after returning to his room, he’d dreamt of Theon shivering and alone, starving in the dungeons, emaciated and aged, somehow forgotten for what Jon knew, with the certainty of dreams, to be years. 

Now in the daylight, he and Robb don’t make any effort to avoid the guards. Jon stays one pace behind his brother, keeps his eyes down, his face hidden behind Theon’s folded furs so that Jory and Alyn don’t see his expression.

“We only mean to bring Theon something for warmth,” Robb says authoritatively. “Last night when I visited him the chill was unbearable down there.”

Both guardsmen at the door look away, as Robb says it. Regardless of their orders, Jon suspects none of the guard rightly consider Theon a traitor or a threat. He had been friendly with several of them, despite being a highborn heir, treating them to ale and dice games at times, prompting them to overlook him sneaking girls into the castle after dark. And now they guard him as a prisoner. 

Jory holds the door open for them to let them inside. Jon says nothing, his head down. 

The lamps are still lit from the previous night and there’s not much light otherwise though the sun is up. The stone steps are as cold and dark as they had been in the dead of night. The stone around them sweats in the cold morning air, and Jon can see his own breath in front of his face easier than he can see the stone floor underfoot. When they reach the gate of Theon’s cell, he’s still asleep, curled tight on the straw cot against the wall. Dim grey light peeks down from the barred little window, casting an eerie shadow over Theon’s pale skin. Jon shuffles his bundle of furs to one arm and stands on his toes to reach for the bolt, sliding the iron bar free, but Theon doesn’t stir. It must have taken him some time, to fall asleep down here. Unable to help himself once the door is open, Jon dashes to his side, dropping onto the cot with his arms full of Theon’s blankets.

Theon jolts awake, shaken and confused for a second before his eyes focus on Jon’s face.

“Jon? Wh — what’re you doing here?”

“I told you I would,” Jon says, grabbing a handful of Theon’s furs and giving them a shake.

Theon stares at him a moment before looking out the meager grated window he’s allowed down here. 

Jon’s afraid to daly. He sits up to kiss Theon’s cheek before standing from his cot. Turning pink, Theon blinks down at Jon before reaching up to rub the heel of his hand over his cheek. His eyes flick to Robb, but a smile twitches on his lips, just barely.

“That should help,” Jon says. “We can’t stay, the guards… the guards know we’re here, so I should —”

Theon reaches for him, taking hold of his wrist before Jon can slip away. “Jon.” When Jon looks at him, Theon grins. “Thank you. Truly. It’s bloody freezing down here.”

Jon doesn’t smile back. It isn’t funny.

Robb, it seems, is uncomfortable with staying much longer than Jon. They bid each other their awkward goodbyes, and Jon and Robb start back to the castle. With Jon ahead this time, Robb reaches forward to squeeze his brother’s shoulder before they heave the ironwood door open to Jory and Alyn standing at attention.

The days that follow don’t quite fit into place. Without news from the south, Winterfell falls into a holding pattern; going about life as usual all the while accommodating the absence of the Greyjoy ward. Jon has trouble keeping track of time as it diffuses from one morning to the next. He convinces Robb to take him to see Theon some afternoons, but every day would be too obvious. The days Jon stays out of the dungeons always seem twice as long.

Time spent in the dungeons aren’t much better. He knows Theon is frightened, and knows he’d never show such fear in front of them. Jon doubts he’d even be honest of such thoughts to Jon alone — certainly he’d never want Robb to see him as a coward. Still, the times that Jon and Robb visit him, he acts more like himself. Sometimes he’ll laugh, if one of them says something he finds funny. It’s not quite enough, but it gives Jon a glimmer of hope. Perhaps it gives Theon some, too. Jon has at least noticed more empty plates returned to the kitchens.

It’s been nearly a moon’s time since Theon’s imprisonment when Jon and Robb go to visit him after supper. Theon is seated cross-legged on his mattress, still picking at his own meal when Jon slides the bolt back and steps into his cell.

“Evening, Snow,” Theon says around a mouthful of bread. “Or is it? Bit hard to tell down here.”

Jon frowns. Theon always revels in making jokes of being locked up down here, but Jon can never find it in him to pretend they’re amusing.

Spurned, Theon tisks. “Oh, come now, Jon. Smile for me. You’re such a sullen thing.”

He reaches out for him, and Jon closes the distance between them, settling down on Theon’s furs and pressing against his side, knees touching. He says nothing, and Theon curls a free arm around Jon’s back as he goes back to eating.

Lingering, Robb watches on from the doorway for a moment, closing the iron bars behind him. It seems every time he’s found something new in the way Jon and Theon share their space. His brow is furrowed, as if trying to decide if speaking would intrude on whatever moment this is between them. 

Theon has no such qualms.

“Stark,” he regards with a nod, “any further news on what’s to become of me?”

Robb doesn’t like the jokes, either. He shakes his head, saying only, “No.”

“I do hope something is decided before I wither and die of old age down here,” Theon scoffs. 

Jon shoves him, and Theon grunts.

He only rolls his eyes at Jon and sets his empty plate aside, and Jon feels the back of his neck itch. The less Jon and Robb tolerate his off-colour joking, it seems, the more motivated Theon is to persist in it. 

“Shut up about that,” Jon snaps at him finally. 

“Aye, fine,” Theon says, “I won’t speak of it, but it doesn’t make me less of a prisoner.” Before either Jon or Robb can respond to that, he carries on, “What of your family, then, if there’s no word of mine? You two are all who ever come down here, other than guardsmen. Are the children well?”

Talk never quite lasts as long as Jon wants it to. There is not much news to fill the time with. Unease settles over the three of them before too long, as it always does, and either Theon or Robb will mention them needing to return to the keep. Since that first morning when they ferried Theon’s quilts and pelts down to him, Jon hasn’t ever brought up needing to leave — though he hates how often it circles in his mind. Worrying that this is the last time.

One morning, Jon catches the Stark children returning from a visit to Lady Catelyn’s sept. They file in an orderly line behind their mother and Septa Mordane. Lowering his eyes, Jon steps aside to let them pass, careful to avoid Lady Catelyn’s path. She and the septa pass, ignoring him, as do the younger children, but Jon catches Robb’s eye and he stops near him. 

He means to ask Robb to take him to the dungeons before midday, but instead, the maester sees them. 

“Robb,” the old maester calls, his tone solemn and he comes upon them. His eyes seem to find Jon as an afterthought, and he gives him a nod. “And Jon, you ought to come as well. Your father has called for you in his solar. There’s been a raven from the king.”

He and Robb chance a look at each other before following the maester to their father’s solar. The walk is solemn, silent, much like it was the day they were called to learn of Theon’s imprisonment.

When they reach Father’s solar, it is empty save for Lord Stark, seated at his carved oaken desk as he often is. There is an open raven scroll before him, a long, narrow strip of parchment, edges curled. He looks past his two sons, to old Maester Luwin standing in the doorway. Lord Stark nods at him, and the maester departs, shutting the door behind him. Unlike that day, the girls are not called to counsel with Lord Stark now. Maester Luwin is not going to return with them in tow. Fear grips at Jon’s heart from their absence. The matter is too serious, now, to involve young girls.

Robb is stoic beside Jon. “Father? You called for us.”

“Yes,” Lord Stark waves to the chairs beside his desk, but neither Jon nor Robb make any move toward them. “I’m sure Maester Luwin informed you. There’s been news from the capital. King Robert has returned with a solution for Theon Greyjoy’s captivity.”

Jon can’t breathe. He stares at his feet. 

Robb allows a moment of silence before asking, “Which is?”

Jon shuts his eyes, too afraid to even look at the flagstone at his feet as he hears the news.

“The king has decided in favour of mercy. Lord Greyjoy is to be sent to the Wall with an escort. There, he shall have the opportunity take the black and forsake his titles. With that, the throne will be satisfied that he poses no threat of rebellion or conspiracy in the ongoing hostilities of his house and his kingdom. Once removed from succession, his uncle will have no cause to pursue Theon to the Wall, and Euron Greyjoy's rebellion will be put down.”

Relief and terror both sweep over Jon at once. It feels like breathing ice. His eyes snap open, and he looks up. “What?”

His father glances at him briefly. Jon hadn’t meant to speak aloud. 

“Theon will be welcome at the Wall. The Night’s Watch takes no part in the quarreling and wars of the great houses. They hold no allegiance to anything save the people of the realm. No harm will come to him at the hands of either the king or his uncle. And Theon is a young lad, educated, literate, and trained in arms. He would do well in the Watch. Earn a position as an officer, even a captaincy.”

Jon had always looked at the Night’s Watch as his own calling, where he might join his uncle one day, earning an honour and a title beyond that of his birthright. A place where he might escape the sentence of Ned Stark’s bastard. But the thought of Theon being brought there on pain of death settles curdles in his heart. It’s not fair, for Theon to be forced away when his uncle is the lawbreaker. A kinslayer. That isn’t justice.

“And then what of the unrest in the Iron Islands?” asks Robb, taking a step toward Jon, to shield him, it would seem, from their father’s eye. “Theon’s sister and her supporters have taken up arms against their uncle. Many of the ironborn houses have declared for her. They are fighting to keep the king’s peace! Has the king any counsel for the war going on amongst the ironborn that threatens to engulf the kingdoms?”

Father looks crestfallen. “The king will back the loyalists, Yara Greyjoy and her supporters; House Harlaw and their vassals. When the rebels are defeated, King Robert will decide a new Lord Paramount for the Islands.”

“If Euron Greyjoy is slain in battle,” Jon says, “and Theon swears the vows of the Night's Watch… that would only lead to the extinction of House Greyjoy.”

“Yes,” replies Father, “it would. It would seem that is the king's aim. But the Iron Islands are the king’s priority, not ours. A civil war so far from our shores is not something we can trouble ourselves with now. Those are matters for the throne.”

“Father, you can’t possibly mean that,” Robb interrupts, aghast. “Not our priority? Theon may not be our blood, but he is of our household only due to a war they started! Sending him to the Night’s Watch only assists his uncle’s treachery! It removes a claimant that stands between Euron Greyjoy and control of the Iron Islands. The king should be supplying Theon an army, not banishing him!”

“Robb, the king has no mind to restore a Greyjoy claimant to Seastone Chair. They have proven an unworthy Lord Paramount and —”

“Theon is blameless in this,” Robb snaps, “he had no part in any conspiracy or murder or kinslaying. There’s no justice in sending him to Wall as we do thieves and criminals, robbing him of his inheritance.”

“Enough, Robb.” Lord Stark’s voice is loud and stunning, and Jon is reminded of the tone he took years ago, scolding his son among half the castle in the dead of night. How fast their father can shift between compassionate and commanding. “The Night’s Watch is a noble pursuit. A man may rise high there, no matter his lot. It is not only a path for lawbreakers. Your own uncle is a proud brother of the Night’s Watch, as Jon wishes to be one day. Lord Greyjoy may win back some favour for his house with a long and dutiful service.”

A pang of guilt hits Jon. Robb looks at him, eyes knowing, before turning back to Father.

“Sending away the last rightful heir of the Iron Islands to shed his titles will not settle the unrest there,” he points out, “it would only embolden the rebels and turn Theon’s supporters against the throne. The ironborn are warriors. Whoever claims the Seastone Chair, be it Yara Greyjoy or her uncle, will turn to the mainland for vengeance either way, if this is the path that’s chosen. Either to slake a bloodlust for his kin, or to avenge their rightful lord that was stolen from them. Twice.”

“Euron Greyjoy is a savage man, but even he would not waste the men on a fight with no aim. Not so far from the sea as Castle Black.”

Their father has no faith, it seems, in Yara Greyjoy’s army.

Robb opens his mouth to argue further, but Lord Stark gets to his feet, ending the matter. “That is the final word, Robb. I shared the news because I know you are fond of Theon, not to be questioned in my judgement.”

“The king’s judgement, you mean,” Robb growls under his breath.

The words shock both Jon and Lord Stark. Jon gapes at Robb before braving a look at their father, who stands blank-faced for a moment before his expression turns hard. 

“Aye, yes, it is the king’s judgement as well,” he says, his voice carrying a tense chill Jon cannot recall it ever holding before. “And I am Warden of the North, in service of that king. There is no matter to be argued. This is what is to be done with Lord Greyjoy. He is to be sent north to the Wall under guard and will be allowed to take the black as a brother of the Night’s Watch and live out his days in service to the realm. You are both dismissed.”

Turning on the heel of his boot, Robb snatches Jon’s arm and drags him through the door.

It’s possible that Robb is talking to him, but Jon can’t hear over the ringing in his ears. His head is still in his father’s solar. Robb drags him around the corner, until the two of them run headlong into Arya, who is standing just outside.

Jon stares at her, feeling too numb to understand her presence until Robb hisses, “Arya? What are you doing sneaking around out here?”

“I — I saw the maester call for you both to Father’s solar when we were coming from the sept. I just wanted to know what was going on.” She looks sheepishly at the both of them, hands behind her back.

Still gripping Jon’s arm, Robb starts off down the hall, but Arya follows after them. 

“You’re too young to be listening to such things,” Robb scolds her over his shoulder. “Get on, you weren’t meant to overhear.”

Jon only follows between them silently. He feels as if he’s someone else entirely. Not even a man, but an insect watching from the wall. Arya seems to stare right through him.

“I heard what Father plans to do with Greyjoy,” she says with a grave tone beyond a girl of her years. “Are you alright?”

Before Jon can answer, Robb halts. He casts a withering eye at Jon. “What does she know?”

“I know all about it!” shouts Arya, barging between the boys.

“She doesn't. It’s fine,” Jon manages at last, avoiding Robb’s question and absently shaking his arm from his brother’s grip. “The Night’s Watch is an honour, far better than an undeserved execution. It’s a fair solution.”

“You’re white as death,” Arya points out, disbelieving.

“Arya, enough,” Robb snaps at her. His patience is at its limit. Whatever he assumes, he’s not going to bother understanding it now. He takes hold of Jon’s wrist and starts to walk again. Jon nearly trips over his own feet as he’s pulled numbly along. 

“These are matters beyond your years,” Robb says as they reach the wide arch of the Great Keep. “Go find your septa, Arya. We’ve got to tell Theon of the news from the king, leave us be.”

“Jon’s scared he’s next,” Arya tells Robb with frank confidence. It tightens Jon’s throat and makes his hands shake. Robb’s grip on his arm turns to stone, and he stops walking. “He and Greyjoy had just started getting on before —”

“ _Enough._ ” Robb’s voice is fierce enough that Arya actually listens and falls silent. “Father hadn’t meant for you to know what is to become of Theon, so you’ll do right to forget it. Understand?”

“But Jon —”

“Stop,” Jon murmurs, “both of you stop it.”

Their voices are too loud, cut into him like broken glass. He can’t stand to be around either of them. What’s happened to him? Flinching from his two siblings that he cares for so deeply. Both Arya and Robb are staring at him, waiting for him to say something more, but he just wants to disappear.

“Go to your lessons, Arya,” he says at last. “Your septa will be wondering where you are.”

Jon has never before tried to rid himself of Arya’s company. His youngest sister is precious to him, most dear out of all the Stark children. But he can’t trust himself. For a moment she doesn’t say anything, only looks at him with a hurt expression on her little face. It’s worse than their bickering, to see that look on her face now.

“Arya, please. Go,” he manages. 

He’s terrified his voice will break if he says anything further. Arya knows. She must. but she says nothing else. She stares at him a moment longer before huffing and turning on her heel, her braids trailing. 

Jon watches her go silently. 

Robb stares after her as well, ensuring that she is leaving, but the moment she turns the corner, he asks again, “What does she know?”

“Nothing, honestly.”

Robb frowns at that, but decides to let it be. “Are you truly alright?”

This time, when Jon shakes out of Robb’s grip, it’s with purpose. “Of course not.”

Robb looks heartbroken. “I understand,” he says, though Jon is sure he has never understood anything less. “It is unfair that he be made to pay for his family’s treachery twice over. That he be dishonoured this way. But, Jon... is it so bad, being sent to the Wall? He would be welcomed, there.”

And that, that is worse than his and Arya’s squabbling. Worse than the indifference in Father’s voice as he dismissed them from his solar. Worse than the sharp pain piercing his chest since Father said a raven had returned from the capital. 

Scoffing, Jon snaps, “Is that truly what you think?”

“I only mean —”

Jon doesn’t want to know what he means. The wall inside him crumbles to dust, and numbness washes away to despair swallowing him whole. He could strike Robb for those words. He could scream. His whole body aches so fully it feels as if he’s being torn apart. Tears of fury well in his eyes, and a wave of anger courses through his limbs so intense it moves his body like a puppet on strings. He shoves Robb without feeling as if he’s done it at all, and Robb stumbles back, surprised. 

“The Others take what you think, Stark,” Jon wheezes. “Is this justice to you? Theon is your friend, is he not? You would rather see him marched off to the Wall like a thief, stripped of his rights and titles? To be the last carrier of his family name, only to die without heirs? I thought that sort of thing mattered to you highborns.”

“I would rather see him alive!”

Robb never raises his voice to his brother, and Jon’s retort dies in his mouth. 

And truly, his brother seems surprised to have shouted himself, but goes on, “At the Wall he will be alive and he will be safe. I have spent the last month fretting over whether this was the day I would have to march out to the block and witness Father take his head! And I didn’t think that I could stand to do it. You think you are the only one who lies awake at night fretting over Theon’s safety? I have been sick with worry. For both him and for you. But now, he has been given a reprieve, and he might be granted his life. Not just his life but an honourable path to dedicate it toward. Theon has been granted his life, Jon. Let that be enough.”

“It’s _not_. Damn you, it’s not enough. I don’t want him at the Wall,” Jon argues petulantly. “I want — I want him with me.”

For a moment, all Robb does is blink. Jon can’t remember the last time he let himself be selfish. Finally, Robb’s face softens.

“The Night’s Watch is a worthy calling,” Robb insists gently. “You mentioned yourself, wanting to join the Watch, once. With Uncle Benjen. Even Father said. If Theon is serving in the Night’s Watch might you not go and join him, one day? You’ve always loved Uncle Benjen’s stories of the Watch.”

It’s true. When they had been boys, visits from their Uncle Benjen were always Jon’s favourite. He would look forward to them for months ahead. Uncle Benjen treated him just as much a Stark as the other children, and often talked about how at the Wall, there are no bastards, only brothers. Men of every stripe could rise above their station, judged only by his deeds and his service. When he had been young, the idea of such an order of brothers had charmed Jon. A promise of escape, of honour, of true family. To be something other than Ned Stark’s bastard son. 

But that was before Theon had taken him in the godswood, before he’d purred the soft promise into his throat. _“I’m yours, Jon. Just as you’re mine.”_

“I…” Jon finally manages. He wipes at his face before the tears can fall. “That’s — that was different.”

It’s obviously out of nervousness, when Robb smiles. “How so?”

“Theon isn’t like me,” Jon says flatly, “he’d go mad up there, in the cold.”

“He’s lived here in the North nearly all his life, Jon,” Robb says with a comforting pat on his shoulder. “And anyway, there’s plenty of southerners up there at the Wall. He’d survive just as all of them.”

“No,” Jon snaps, shaking his head, “no, he wouldn’t. You know he wouldn’t. Sleeping on straw every night with the sheep and the hens, taking orders from brigands, swearing off girls? Does that — does that sound like Theon to you?”

Robb eyes him curiously before his gaze drops. Jon sighs. 

“The Night’s Watch always sounded so simple to me,” Jon adds, clearing his throat. “Hard work, but noble work. A chance for glory, for adventure. But Theon doesn’t — Theon doesn’t care for any of that, does he? He never has. He has no need. What want has he for honours and duty? Service at the Wall drew me because it was a way to make something of myself regardless of my name, but Theon — Theon has a name. He doesn’t need to win glory for himself. He can’t stand following orders, being told how to act, being made to break bread with horse thieves and bandits. You — you _know_ he can’t.” 

He doesn’t expect the way Robb’s brow furrows, at that. As if perhaps he had no idea. 

“We can’t — we can’t let Father send him there,” Jon begs, “please, Robb. We have to do something. I can’t… I can’t lose him to the Wall.”

“You won’t,” says Robb awkwardly. “The Night’s Watch men aren’t trapped up there forever. Uncle Benjen still… he still visits us.”

The waver of uncertainty of his voice breaks Jon’s heart. The Night’s Watch isn’t just a noble pursuit, it’s a dangerous one. Dangerous enough in the summer and now winter will be here soon. Theon is reckless even in his easiest moods. It would only get worse, trapped up there. He might die in a matter of weeks, before even taking his vows, and then all of this pleading would have been for nothing.

“Please,” presses Jon, “we can’t — we have to tell Father that we can’t.”

“Jon…” Robb sighs, “what more can we do?”

Jon shakes his head, but the sobs are choking him now. 

“I love him,” Jon sobs. “Since I was — since I was a boy. I’ve loved —”

“Oh, Jon.” Robb’s voice is so gentle, and he pulls him into his arms, his fingers running through his brother’s black hair. It’s so much like what Theon does, when he’s heartbroken, that Jon pulls away. Robb wants Jon to look at him, but he can’t. “You never — you never told anyone?”

Jon shakes his head, dragging his hands over his eyes. He’s not even told Theon, how long he’s loved him. Just that he does now, as he knows Theon loves him.

“Come along,” Robb says gently, helping Jon to his feet. “It does no good to sit weeping out here in the hall where someone may find us.”

Jon digs his heels against the stone. He wants that, for someone to find him. Throw him into the dungeons alongside Theon. Perhaps if Jon proves himself a deviant, Father will have no choice but to be rid of both of them.

“Jon,” Robb pleads carefully, “come on, let me take you to your room.”

“No,” snaps Jon, feeling like a child, ripping his hand out from Robb’s grip. “I don’t want — I don’t want to go to my room. I want —” He wants Theon. He longs for the peace he feels when they’re alone together, the way the world stops around them. Everything is moving so fast, and there’s so much. Jon just wants peace.

He doesn’t realize he’s moving until Robb catches up to him, grabbing his arm. “Where are you going?”

Jon shakes him off. “To pray.”

It’s not quite a lie. Though he has no desire to speak to the gods, their wood is silent and comforting, away from the smoke and bustle of the castle. It’s where Jon would go to escape Lady Catelyn when he was a child and she seemed like the cause of every trouble he had. He’s not so naive any longer to think he can escape Robb or Theon’s imprisonment as easily, but as he weaves his way through the trees and brush, lush with long summer growth, he feels himself relax. He’s always loved it here, more than any other place in Winterfell. The old gods aren’t like the Seven, carved into the walls of their sept, trapped there to glare at all who enter. The old gods are never only in one place. The old gods are all along the North. They are the landscape, the seasons, the forests, the streams, the rain and sun. Jon feels them, even when he isn’t praying. They’re in the smell of mulch under his boots, in the sounds of the woods muffled from where frost still clings to the dirt in long shadows. 

He doesn’t speak to them, but he can feel their presence, regardless, and knows they are listening. It calms the dread in his chest. Taking a breath, Jon walks slowly until he reaches the heart tree, and curls up against the rough, ghostly weirwood trunk. Sitting under the scarlet canopy, he can close his eyes and think of Theon.

This is where he had fallen in love with him here, when he was just a boy and had no real understanding of what that meant. It was here that he felt understood for the first time, snow dumped over his head to make him laugh. In this quiet acreage of ancient woods, where Jon’s ancestors had prayed for thousands of years. It’s only right that this was where they first laid together, Theon so much gentler and careful than Jon ever would have thought before it happened. It seems impossible now that Jon had ever imagined him any other way. 

_Please,_ Jon thinks, not quite sure if it’s a prayer or just a helpless thought. He’s not sure he ever learned the difference, as a child. _Please don’t take him from me._


	7. Jon

When Jon hears the crunch of boots in the snow, hours later, for a moment he is nine again at the end of winter, and turns expecting to see Theon, lanky and sour-faced as he was at thirteen. Instead, it’s only Robb, emerging from the undergrowth, hovering just far enough beyond Jon’s reach.

“I don’t — I don’t mean to interrupt you,” Robb says, sounding small, “but do you mind if I join you?”

Jon doesn’t have it in him to say no. These are his woods, too. Everything that is Jon’s is also Robb’s. He keeps his eyes down as he shakes his head, permitting his brother to approach. He kicks a little at the mulch under his boots and remembers kneeling down beside Theon as he pouted all that time ago. 

Robb crouches beside him, leaning back against the white bark of the heart tree. Jon finds himself scanning the ground for a stick to poke at the ground with to avoid looking at him.

A long time passes before either of them say anything further. Jon is sure the shadows on the ground are longer by the time Robb mumbles, “I spoke to Theon.”

Jon feels fury burn in his throat. How could Robb do such a thing without him there? But then, Jon was the one who had fled in shame. If anything, Jon selfishly wishes that he could’ve been the one to tell Theon the news on his own. Huddled in that dark cell, he must be so frightened now. And alone.

“Well, brilliant,” he says bitterly, “I’m sure it went well.”

Robb glowers at him. “Gods, you’re starting to sound like him.”

There's a sweep in Jon's stomach, but he ignores it. Now isn't the time. Instead he mutters, “Am I wrong?”

“No.” Robb plucks some grass from the cold dirt. 

It’s not news to Jon at all, and yet somehow, hearing it destroys him. Tears spring to his eyes again, and he buries his head in his arms. “Is he — is he alright, at least?” he mutters into his clothes. “I don’t want to leave him alone but now that you’ve gone it will be odd if I…” Jon swallows, sorrow thick in his throat. “I have to wait for the guards to switch shifts now. Is he —”

Jon isn’t sure what he wants to ask. He pictures Theon alone in that frozen cell. Why would Robb share such news with him only to leave him alone?

“Robb,” Jon manages finally, “tell me what he said.”

“He didn’t say much of anything, really,” Robb admits. “He asked where — he asked where you were. Told me the Night’s Watch were all a bunch of humorless old men who believe in ghosts.”

Hearing it in Theon’s voice, Jon chuckles, sad and wet.

For a moment, Robb doesn’t say anything further. Then he confesses, “After that he told me to leave.”

Jon’s heart twists, and he looks up to meet Robb’s eyes. “He what?”

“He told me to leave,” Robb repeats, “shouted it, really. He didn’t want me there.” 

The wind makes the white limbs of the weirwood tree moan, and Robb looks up to watch its branches twitch. For the first time, Jon notices the corners of Robb’s eyes glimmer with unshed tears.

“I shouldn’t have gone without you,” Robb says then. It feels strange, when Robb says it — when it’s voiced aloud. Untrue and surreal. “I hadn’t thought — but he didn’t want me there. He only wanted you.” 

Jon shakes his head. “He’s just — he’s just scared,” Jon tells him. It’s odd, that he means it as assurance. He realizes too late that Robb won’t hear it that way.

“I’ve never seen Theon scared. Didn’t think he could be.”

Jon huffs another broken laugh. He remembers thinking that once, too. But it was before the night Theon had fallen asleep in his bed, and woken Jon with his nightmares. Finally, Jon says, “He’d rather die than let anyone know he’s scared.”

“Except you,” Robb points out.

For a moment, Jon says nothing. 

“Aye,” he says at last, “I suppose.”

There’s no response for that. The two of them sit in silence for some time after.

Robb’s voice cuts through the quiet first. “Father is doing what he can.”

Alarmingly, it only angers Jon to hear. It isn’t good enough, what Father’s doing. He could do more, Jon knows he can. He could go to war against Euron Greyjoy with a host, as he’d done for the Iron Islands before. He could win Theon his lands back, and release him from the dungeons. He could refuse the king’s order to send him to the Wall.

“I’m scared too,” Robb continues when Jon doesn’t answer him, “but the choice is not ours. You know it isn’t. And there’s no place safer for him now than the Wall.”

“You’ve said as much,” Jon snaps. 

Robb admitting his own fear doesn’t ease Jon’s own. It only irritates him, that Robb thinks he can be scared as well. It’s selfish to think. Jon knows it is. But he thinks it all the same.

“He’s mine,” says Jon helplessly. “He’s the only — the only thing that ever has been mine.”

“That’s not… that’s not true.” Even as he says it, Robb sounds unsure, falling back onto his heels as he looks Jon over. Jon tries to smile, shaking his head.

“Robb, you — Winterfell is your castle. Your home, your lands, your mother, your family.”

Robb frowns, looks down at his hands, angry and confused, before looking back at him with an expression of resolution. “They’re your family, too.”

Jon shys at that, picking awkwardly at some rotted leaves under his boots. He doesn’t look at Robb when he reminds him quietly, “Only by half.”

“Jon, that’s not—”

“It’s alright,” Jon assures him quickly. “I know you — I know that to you and little Arya, half is enough. That Father sees me just as much his son as all of you. But it…”

It’s different. It’s always been different, and Robb will never truly understand just how. Not like Theon does.

“Theon isn’t by half,” Jon says instead. “I’m his, and he’s mine, and that’s all.”

Robb’s eyes are shining when he shakes his head. “Jon, this is your home, too. It always has been. We’ve lived here our whole lives together. You will always have a place here, you must know that.”

It hurts, seeing Robb so wounded by Jon’s honesty. He’s never wanted Robb to know these things. Theon understands, and that was enough, once. But now if Robb doesn’t understand, Jon may never see Theon again. An evening breeze touches their hair, and Jon shivers.

“I know that you really believe that, Robb, and Father, and little Arya. And it — it’s worth something, that you do. It really is.” He swallows, heart heavy. “But it isn’t true. It never… it never really was. Not truly. This is the Stark castle, and I am not a Stark.”

For a moment Robb looks so furious that Jon, bewildered, thinks that Robb may strike him. When he moves, Jon flinches. But Robb only falls forward to throw both arms around Jon’s neck and pull him close.

“You _are,_ ” Robb insists, his voice tight as he clings to him. “You _are_ a Stark, maybe not by name, but our father’s blood runs through you just as it does me. He has raised you beside me every day of our lives. He taught you the same virtue he taught me, reared you to be honest and just and brave. You’re no less a Stark than I am.”

Robb’s cheek is against Jon’s neck, and an agonized jolt goes through him at the realization that his brother is crying. Robb never cries, not since they were boys.

“Robb…”

“Neither of you — neither of you ever said — _anything_ to me,” Robb grits against him. “Never a word. I never thought — I never…”

“Robb, we… we couldn’t…”

“Not _that,_ ” Robb interrupts snappishly. Jon falls silent, and Robb pulls back to look at him, his face blotchy with tears. “I don’t care about that. I don’t care that you found each other. I don’t care what anyone says about it.” He waves his arms, as if he means the trees, the old gods, or the silence around them all mutter judgements when Jon’s back is turned. “But all my life, since I was a boy, I was so glad to have the two of you at my side. I would thank the gods for bringing you both to me, that I had brothers to help me, to counsel me, to share my days. Jon, we have lived all our days together. And now you tell me that all of that was only by half? That you have been lonely all these years by my side when I was only glad to have you? And you never said a word? Have the two of you always been so miserable here? Have you truly felt so alone?”

He hadn’t, and neither, Jon assumes, had Theon. Not really. Miserable was never the word for it. They had family, even if it wasn’t theirs in full. Winterfell had granted them safety, refuge from a world far crueler than their darkest day inside the castle walls. A place to come of age, to grow, to fail safely. Every happy memory was here, and there had been plenty of them. His siblings: wild, stubborn Arya, inquisitive, quiet Bran, even tireless little Rickon, newly growing into boyhood. And Robb, Robb had always been so wonderful. Kind when it was never required of him, bright and welcoming like the sun, always. A warm comfort on even the bleakest of Jon’s days in Winterfell. Jon’s heart breaks for his brother, watching him cry. It robs him of his ability to expand on any of it, and all he can do is pull Robb back into an embrace.

“No,” Jon says finally, wind blowing a chill over the two of them. “No, it’s not like that.”

“I’m sorry, Jon,” mutters Robb, as if Jon had said nothing at all. He wraps his arms tight around Jon’s shoulders. “I didn’t — I didn’t know. I was a fool to not have seen it, or to ignore it if I did, perhaps, but I would’ve — I would’ve done _something._ ”

That makes Jon smile. “I know,” he says then, “and so does he. Perhaps that’s why we never said anything.”

“That makes no sense,” Robb tells him, but there’s a sad little laugh under his voice now, and Jon feels safe to pull away.

“It was never out of misery,” Jon tells him shakily. “It wasn’t, I promise you. And we were never alone. We always — we always had you. The both of us. No matter how alone we were, we always had you.” He laughs then, uneasy. “That’s actually — that’s why we were always fighting, as boys, I think. Over you.”

Robb sniffles, and Jon smiles at him. 

“It’s getting cold,” Jon tells him, pulling his cloak around his shoulders. “Let’s go back inside.”

Robb stands, but Jon hesitates doing so himself. He turns his head to look back at the heart tree, staring at its impassive carved face. Once, it was only the heart tree that knew of what Jon and Theon had done. Now, the gnarled white tree watches him, solemn and ancient, expectant. 

“The gods will protect him, Jon,” Robb says as he stares down at him, misunderstanding his hesitance.

“They aren’t his gods,” Jon replies automatically, still seated on the forest floor. Theon doesn't pay much care to gods of any kind. But perhaps the old gods would watch over him after all. Jon keeps the old gods, and Theon belongs to Jon. “It’s just that — it was here.”

“What was?”

“Everything,” Jon admits. 

He expects Robb to blush or fluster as before, but instead, Robb only sinks back down to his knees beside his brother.

His face is so open and kind, his eyes gentle. The setting sun turns the auburn ringlets around his face golden. Looking at him now, Jon wonders how he ever could have thought that Robb would hate him or Theon for what they’ve done together. Robb could never hate anyone.

“Well, how about we make a campfire, then, like when we were boys.” Robb’s voice is tighter than normal. He sweeps a few thin white branches of kindling into a pile, if only to keep his attention from Jon’s face. “We can linger a little longer, if you like.”

It makes Jon smile, even as he shakes his head. 

Robb doesn’t notice. “We’ve no wine this time, but we can still…” He stops talking, stops moving, and Jon’s smile falls. 

When Robb meets his eyes, he looks staggered, and Jon blinks.

“Oh, Jon.”

“Wh — what?”

“You… you _did_ try and tell me.” Jon opens his mouth, but Robb talks over him, pulling Jon into a hug again. “You tried to tell me, didn’t you? All those years ago. That day back at the start of summer, you told — you told me you had a secret… Gods, I was so stupid.”

Jon had all but forgotten that day entirely, years ago now, nearly drunkenly confessing his tastes, his budding affection for Theon, to his brother under the red canopy of the weirwood when he was just barely four-and-ten. “Oh,” he murmurs, his face burning, “that. That was before. Not — not even Theon knew, then. I hadn’t admitted it to anyone, not even myself, really. It wasn’t — it was just…”

“You wanted to tell me,” Robb repeats miserably. “You wanted to tell me and I didn’t even — didn’t even notice. All this time I’ve been selfishly wondering why you’d keep secrets from me, and you — you didn’t even want to.”

Jon looks at the pile of sticks in front of him. “Theon didn’t, either,” he says lamely. “It’s not enjoyable, lying to you.”

A cold dusk wind snaps through the trees. Jon shivers, and Robb looks up at the fading light of the sky. It will be dark soon, perhaps too dark to hide out here much longer unnoticed.

“Alright, then. Perhaps not a campfire,” Robb says after a moment. “Jory may come looking for us if we’re out much longer. But let’s go to your chambers.”

Jon expects Robb to leave him with an embrace at his door, but instead Robb swings his door open and breezes inside to sit on Jon’s bed, as if he belongs there.

Theon does that sometimes, now. Jon swallows, remembering. No, not now.

“Will you tell me?” Robb asks kindly. “Everything. I want to know.”

Jon tilts his head, stunned, and Robb laughs a little uncomfortably. 

“Well, alright, perhaps not everything. It’s only that — I failed to notice something very important right in front of my eyes, and I would be glad to make it up to you. You’ve never kept such secrets before. I always thought you were a terrible liar.”

When Jon laughs, it comes out more like a strangled gasp. Robb’s face softens, and he pats the spot beside him on Jon’s featherbed. 

“You’d wanted to tell me, once. I’d like to know, if you’re still agreeable. And I won’t tell anyone, Jon. Not even Father. On my honour, it stays with me.”

With a sad scoff, Jon wipes the drying tears from his face. “You would betray your lord’s confidence for that of your bastard brother?”

“I betray nothing, and I value your confidence above all else, Jon. I will keep it to my grave. You know that.”

He does. And so Jon tells him. Every moment Theon had deigned to be kind to the sulking little Jon Snow, every time the rest of the castle seemed to vanish and leave the two of them to fend for themselves. The resilience they had been surprised to discover in one another. The unexpected camaraderie that they maintained in secret, each too ashamed of it to be seen taking comfort in one another, each for their own weaknesses. He assured Robb it wasn’t often, not really, and that as a child everything felt so much more personal than he realizes now, but Robb’s face is set in deep sorrow with every mention of his absence, his distance.

When Jon’s recounting reaches the night of his sixteenth nameday, he realizes a sudden want for secrecy. That, he will not share with his brother. The Theon who kissed him, who took him in the woods — that Theon is Jon’s alone. His brother would not want to hear such things, anyway. He leaves out Ros, and Robb does not ask, though he does ask if Jon likes girls at all.

“I do,” he assures, “well enough, but I’ve not known a girl the same. Was always too worried about fathering a child. Girls and boys alike, though, I’ve not felt for anyone what I do him.”

Robb’s gaze falls away. Blush tinges his cheeks, and he doesn’t say anything. As silence drags, reality settles back into place. With all his talking, Jon had let himself forget that Theon is sleeping alone under the Great Keep on a stale straw bed, and that once he takes the black, Jon may never see him again.

“Gods, it doesn’t matter, really, does it?” Jon asks, losing his composure with each breath. “Whether I just prefer boys or — it doesn’t matter. I don’t want anyone else. I just want him, and now Father is — is sending him away…”

The unease melts from Robb’s expression, leaving only morose. “Oh, Jon…” he says, reaching out for him, “it’s not as bad as —”

“It is,” Jon hiccups, tears washing Robb from his sight. “Don’t tell me it isn’t, please. I’ve no want for some match Father finds me. Some poor girl I’ve never met. She could be beautiful and — and kind and perfect, but I won’t want her.”

Robb looks at him confused. Jon wonders if he’d have to explain so much to Theon. 

“Seven _Hells,_ ” Jon sobs, frustrated more at himself than anything else. 

Silently, Robb pulls Jon into his arms. He doesn’t push for any further explanation and Jon is thankful for it. The recounting has exhausted him. There’s nothing more to say. It doesn’t matter. Jon isn’t even sure he could be understood if he tried.

Robb's hands roll warm, heavy circles on Jon’s back. Jon’s not sure how long they sit that way before his brother eases them down onto the featherbed side by side. Jon’s tears start to slow, taking long shivering breaths against the soft wool of Robb’s tunic.

Robb still doesn’t speak, but shushes gently in Jon’s ear, his hand dragging up and down Jon’s arm to keep him warm.

“When — when your uncle came to — to stay in the castle… and we were... He told me then— he told me...” Jon stammers. He doesn’t finish. He’s unsure even what he even means to say. Whether he means to tell Robb of how they laid together, or the foolish promises they made. Perhaps how every night Lord Edmure was staying in the castle, Theon and Jon slept entwined together on a bed of straw and rabbit pelts, and it was the happiest Jon has ever been. 

Whatever it is he means to say, Robb doesn’t ask. Just nods solemnly before pressing a kiss into Jon’s hair.

Jon curls tight in his brother’s grip. They haven’t laid in bed like this since they were children, when Robb would let Jon crawl beneath his quilts and would defend his brother from thunder and ghosts. Jon longs for the smell of the ocean, but if he closes his eyes, the strong arms around him and steady heartbeat at his ear is enough. Jon doesn’t ask for him to stay, and Robb doesn’t say that he will, but such things understood silently between them. They always have been. Long before Theon ever came to Winterfell, Jon and Robb had had each other, two boys so different yet and as fierce and devoted as two brothers might be. Together they had weathered the winter of their childhood, growing up in the shadow of a war that so damaged their family, so altered the course of their lives before either of them had drawn their first breaths. For all their rivalry, all of Jon's petty jealousy, all of Robb's occasional unmindfulness, they understood each other, bore nothing but the greatest love toward one another. That he had forgotten that, doubted that, Jon is ashamed. 

Nightfall finds them both asleep in Jon’s bed.


	8. Theon

In the shadows of his cell, Theon’s head is still pounding. It had been some time since Robb had paid him a visit on his own. Theon should have known something was wrong the moment he saw that Jon wasn’t in tow.

And he _did_ know something was wrong. He knew.

But why _hadn’t_ Jon been in tow? Why wouldn’t Jon come to see him now? Even in recent years, grown as he is, Jon was always keeping close to Theon as a boy does his mother’s skirts. But now, with news of his impending exile to the Night’s Watch, suddenly Jon has no need to see him? Robb had claimed Jon had gone to pray at the godswood. But what point is there to that? Those gods care not about Theon. He’s not of their lands. And even if they did care enough to help him — they don’t need Jon’s prayers in any timely fashion. 

Theon needs Jon _now._

Needed him the moment Robb stood at the barred cell door and knocked his hand against the lock. Alyn had been the last one to check on him, and had locked the iron gate behind him. He’d forgotten so many times since, that the fact that he’d done it now felt like an omen.

Robb had no such misgivings, however. He’d looked at Theon with a gentle smile and told him there had been news from the king. _“It’s not bad news,”_ Robb had told him, _“Not as it could be, anyway.”_

It hadn’t fooled Theon at all. Good news would’ve brought Jon to him. Though, he’d thought bad news would, as well.

Not bad news. Theon had been furious, at that. Shouted and rattled the iron bars. He should know by now to watch his temper around the heir of Winterfell. Especially now that he’s locked away in a dungeon, a prisoner, a traitor’s child, everyone waiting for one wrong word from him. If Robb were any other sort of man, Theon would be in shackles by now.

Guilt still rattles around in his skull, the unrelenting drone, pounding behind his eyes as he paces from one end of his cell to the other. He hadn’t meant to send Robb away so cruelly. Surely Robb is frightened, too. But Theon no longer has the motivation to be brave. He’s terrified and lonely, and the idea of being sent to the Wall overwhelms him with dread. He can barely stand the cold of Winterfell, with it’s warm walls and hot baths, with all the cloaks and leathers he’s allowed to wear.

And Jon to share his bed, warm as being pressed against a low-burning fire in his sleep.

For a moment in his cell, with Robb standing there, watching him, Theon had considered a life at the Wall. Jon would join him, mayhaps, in a few years. He’d always talked of doing so, as a boy. But perhaps now that Theon will be sent there, Jon might rediscover his childhood calling.

But it wouldn’t matter, anyway. Theon knows that. Life is nowhere near as private, at the Wall. They’d never have a moment alone. Certainly no extended leisure like they enjoy in Winterfell. Toil and hardship awaited them in the Night’s Watch. And perhaps their newfound brothers wouldn’t care about their affair. Theon is sure deviants are sent to the Wall in droves, and with no women, he imagines more of the black brothers seek comfort that way than would admit it. But it would all be different up there. Desperate and angry and utterly helpless. Forgotten at the edge of the world to die with only each other to stave off the horror. Surrounded by thieves and brigands and rapers they’re meant to consider their family. Even with Jon at his side, Theon doubts he could survive such a sentence.

And Robb had stood there, staring back at him with that eager, hopeful look he gets, and perhaps he thought Theon would be relieved. He probably should be. But with the news in front of him, undeniable and unavoidable, Theon realizes he had stupidly let himself believe that if it came to it, Lord Stark would stand for him. For him; the enemy’s son, a traitor’s son. For this lecherous brat who he had already permitted so many transgressions. 

It is not, Theon realizes with a sharp pang, what he had expected. He’d expected a pardon home. He’d expected an army to bring back to the Islands to defeat his uncle. Darkest of all, he’d expected the king would order his execution, and that Lord Stark would disregard it. 

In comparison, this feels weak, and Theon understands finally that Lord Stark never saw him as a son, never even as an ally. Lord Stark barely thought of him enough to see him as an enemy. To Lord Stark, the only father he’s ever really known, Theon was no one at all.

And still, Robb had stood there, waiting to hear Theon’s relief. Smiling at him. To Robb, this outcome is something to be happy about. His father won’t execute his friend, and his friend would no longer be in present danger. He hasn’t considered it beyond that, it seems.

Not like Jon most certainly has, running off to pray with all the foolish hope of a damn child.

This cell feels more cramped now than it has in all the days he’s been down here. Even as he sits to bundle under his furs he feels the chill creeping under his clothes, against his skin. This is what he deserves now, Theon assumes, after all these years. Stupid enough to believe Lord Stark considers him anything other than a hostage of war. Stupid enough to work his way through every brothel and tavern before he’d even turned one-and-twenty. Stupid enough to fall for his captor’s bastard son. Stupid enough to hope anything at all could ever come of it.

Once, he had told Jon that Lord Stark might send him to the Wall if he’d ever learned of their indecency. He doesn’t believe that now. Lord Stark cares nothing for Theon Greyjoy. Beheading would have been the only option, then.

It’s so pitiful, the way he wallows in his misery now. He wishes he’d not sent Robb away. He wishes Robb had at least thought to wait for Jon’s company. 

He wishes, perhaps most foolishly of all, that Lord Stark would come to see him.

Abruptly, Theon realizes he can’t feel his feet. Had he stopped moving? Dazed, he starts again, pacing from one end of the cell to the other. The chill in the dungeons is far more pronounced. The sun must have set some time ago. There are yellow torches lit in the corridor, and a standing brazier just outside the iron bars, but the fires do nothing to fend off the cold. Theon is numb and tired and so uselessly cold. 

He misses Jon. Yearns to crawl into his bed and pull him close. Thinking of Jon was too painful when he was first imprisoned. Denial was all Theon could turn to to keep sane those first few days. Even now, it is like ropes tightening around his heart, but that still is better than the yawning emptiness swallowing him whole since hearing the news. What a pathetic creature he’s become down here, pining for Jon Snow like a lovestruck dolt. 

Furious with his weakness, Theon kicks at his dinner plates on the floor, a childish sense of pride briefly warming him as he hears the ceramic shatter against stone.

Guilt washes over him shortly after, and he scrapes the shards together into a pile with his foot. They’re waiting for any reason to be rid of him, now. If Lady Catelyn wished to, she could have Theon beaten for these ruined dishes.

And what of it? The pain might do him some good. Gods, he’s tired. He’s unsure of the time, knows only that it’s night. Perhaps Jon is asleep. 

The thought calms him slightly, which doesn’t surprise him. He’s always loved to watch Jon sleep. He’s so beautiful when he sleeps.

Something dark and uncomfortable curls low in Theon’s stomach. How long has it been, he wonders suddenly, since Jon had touched him? Will he ever get the chance again? With Robb and the guards always at a close distance, they’ve not braved anything other than hastey, furtive kisses in their brief moments together. 

Theon misses it. Misses the feel of Jon’s bare skin against his. His solid weight. His inner warmth. Theon hasn’t felt the hunger for it quite the same as of late, but Jon has always had an insatiability about him. A virgin’s eagerness. Theon wonders if he’s touched himself at all since they’ve been apart, thinking on fantasies.

Theon had asked him once, after the first time. Keening and new as he was, Jon had admitted to taking a hand to himself near every night. Surely he isn’t still so impossibly eager, but Theon wonders how often Jon has yearned for touch since Theon’s imprisonment. He would have no choice, now.

Bundling under his furs, Theon gives in. Lets himself imagine Jon. Laying alone on his bed in his simple nightclothes. His quilts kicked off in a frantic heap. Does he still think of that first time beneath the heart tree? He would, sentimental boy that he is. Theon wouldn’t be surprised if he still considered their time in the godswood the best he’s had. Even now, after Ros; after Theon had let Jon take him like a thrall. He’s a yearning, demonstrative thing beneath that pout. 

If Theon focuses hard enough, he can feel soft, dark hair clenched in his fingers, can smell the warm stone and clean linen scent of Jon’s skin. He shuts his eyes to chase that image, Jon pushed sleeping against his side. He’s always so beautiful when he sleeps.

And he can almost hold onto him, if he keeps his eyes shut, if he focuses hard enough. Gods, Theon wants him. Why hadn’t he come with Robb to see him?

“No —” Theon growls aloud through clenched teeth. He can’t let his mind wander that way. Not when he needs this — needs Jon.

This had been easier once. Theon remembers. Back when he was laid out on his featherbed at night, in his heated room, thinking of whoever he’d last had underneath him. He wishes it would come easily now, when he’s so desperate now to forget where he is, if only for a moment.

A cold sweat prickles at Theon’s skin as he rips at the laces of his breeches. He can’t shake the uneasiness from his body, but he no longer cares. He perhaps should have tried this before his fate had been decided. He had been too scared to try.

If anything, he should be more frightened now. And really, if he lets himself think on it too long, he _is_. But he can’t wait any longer. He may not get another chance.

Shockingly, heat pools in Theon’s stomach at the realization. Helpless for it, Theon chases that feeling, wraps cold, stiff fingers around his cock. Perhaps if he’s to take the black anyway, he and Jon can allow themselves a final goodbye. Perhaps Robb can bring Jon down, distract the guards some way, and they can claim each other a last time, in this dark, dank cell.

Now, when Theon tries to picture it, the image is sharper; steadier in his mind. Jon underneath him, eyes shining in the dark as he stares coyly up at Theon. Mouth red and bitten. Pale skin flushed. 

_“Theon, please,”_ he would whisper in urgency, _“please touch me.”_

Eyes shut tight, Theon holds onto what he can remember. The sweet little sounds Jon makes The feel of his tender hands, sometimes calloused and raw from training. The disheveled curls, black as ink, falling into his face. 

As Theon tries to move his hand, it becomes obvious that his grip is too dry, and far too cold. His cock is still soft. Theon lets out an anguished grunt and spits into his palm.

Usually, Jon is so austere, always so quiet and humourless. How quickly Theon can change him, can turn him into a mewling harlot with just a chosen word or a clever touch. It’s like wine straight to Theon’s head, that power that he’s uncovered. The way Jon’s scowl softens and falls away from his brow, how the line of his mouth unwinds and parts in a gasp. 

Theon drags his hand over himself, head tilted back, trying to hold onto the image of him.

Every memory of Jon is engulfing. It is as if he’s not seen Jon with his own eyes in years.

Dread and doom threatens to intrude at the back of his mind, makes focus difficult, but he settles on a specific memory to keep himself afloat: their third night staying at the inn. Before they had retired to their small room for the evening, they had passed the day in the winter town. Theon had been enamoured by the visiting merchant stands and games, but Jon stood aside, huffed and complained about how tired he was until Theon finally relented and brought him back inside. 

They had done not much else but fuck and drink since they’d taken up residence in their rented room. By the third day, Theon had thought perhaps at last he’d found the limits of Jon’s boundless appetite. Thought that Jon would crawl right into bed and fall promptly asleep. But instead he’d latched onto Theon’s leather doublet and tugged him close.

_“Theon,”_ he had whispered, breathless, _“come here. Fuck me. Please, I — I want you to have me.”_

So he had swept Jon into his arms and kissed down the tendons of his neck until Jon had murmured in his ear, _“Like this, Theon. Pl — please. Against the wall this way.”_

The memory alone is enough to make Theon gasp, his hand clenching around his cock. It’s starting to yield results. Warmth unfurls to the ends of his fingers as he keeps Jon’s breathless pleas in the forefront of his mind.

“Yes —” 

He can still see it, if he tries. The glassy look in Jon’s eyes as he stared back at him. The shaky way his chin dipped as Theon had asked again and again _“Like this, are you sure?”_

But of course he was sure. Jon is always so certain in everything he wants, Theon is almost envious. What must that be like, to be always so decisive, assured? Jon never asks for anything before wanting it fully, totally, begging, desperate and squirming.

Staying at the inn had made Jon bold — too bold, really — and he’d keened and pawed at Theon’s clothes. _“Fuck me, Theon,”_ he’d repeated mindlessly, _“Please, like this, holding me this way, I want —”_

Always wanting to be held. Always wanting to look Theon in the eye. Even in his filthiest desires of being fucked hard like a whore, Jon has always been so tender in revealing his heart. 

Currently, Theon’s hand falters as the memory forms a lump in his throat. Tears prickle the corners of his eyes as he tries to shake away from the frank intimacy from the memory. Instead tries only to remember the feeling of hot skin on skin, the sounds Jon made as Theon fucked into him, the squeeze as Jon had thrown his arms around his shoulders for support. 

Instead he’s interrupted by the memory of Jon’s dark eyes pinned to his face, his breath hitching as he repeated Theon’s name over and over in a gasp just before he came.

With a pathetic groan, Theon still tries to run his hand over his cock, moving faster in a vain attempt to bring himself release before the memory dissolves entirely from his misery. 

He revisits that night, that moment, the way Jon had thrown his head back against the wall, exposing his throat for Theon’s tongue. He’d tasted amazing that night, sweat and smoke thick on his hot skin. Theon remembers.

Frantic, beyond shame, he coaxes the images of Jon forward. Thick, black hair. That tempting, plush mouth of his. Eyes black as night when Theon pushed into him. He’s so pretty, fucked limp that way. Theon remembers the way Jon’s legs slipped from around his waist, the way his strong hand clenched too hard in his hair, on his shoulders, trying to stay upright. He remembers Jon’s lips, red and wet and bitten, hanging open as Theon rocked into him, pushing back against the wall. Remembers the heat of their bodies together, gripping, flexing, devouring. He loves it when they’re like that, forgotten words, forgotten who and where they are, all the trial that awaits them. Knowing only each other’s bodies, each other’s breath. 

Clenching his teeth, Theon moves his hand, chasing that arousal. He’s close now, if he just holds onto the thought. He’s getting close. His body is so warm he could be back in his room, stretched over his featherbed and fleece bedding. He won’t open his eyes. As long as his eyes are closed, it’s true.

He can almost feel the way Jon shivered in his grip, thighs shaking badly as they struggled to stay tight around Theon’s hips. 

Teeth sinking into his tongue, Theon feels his eyes roll back, chasing. His cock is hard under his fingers now, and he’s close. If he focuses, his hand isn’t on his own cock at all, instead wrapped around Jon’s as he sinks further and further into Jon’s yearning, desperate body. Always so fucking desperate. Always begging, pleading, helpless for him.

_”Tell me, Theon,”_ Jon had groaned, hands knotted tight in his hair, his eyes darken but still so impossibly clear as he shifts to look Theon in the eye. _“Tell me that you’re mine. I want — want to hear that — you’re mine.”_

“Fuck.” The memory evaporates. His cock softens in his hand. A frustrated scream bursts from gritted teeth as Theon slams his fist into the furs behind his head.

Even this is taken from him. His last, futile recourse of escape from this dank cell. How disgusting. He is trapped. No matter what. The Night’s Watch looms ahead of him like Lord Stark’s greatsword had for so many years. 

He may never see Jon again, his mind supplies once more, bitter and unrelenting. Lord Stark may send Theon to the Wall with the dawn, and Jon will just become a distant memory of a life never to be revisited.

_“Please, don’t leave me behind.”_ The memory invades him. Theon buries his face in his arms and curls tight into himself, shivering underneath his wolf pelts. _“I can’t stay there, not alone.”_

“Fuck,” Theon repeats weakly, the sob thick in his throat. “ _Fuck._ ”

It seems he’s done nothing but weep down here. He should be ashamed of what’s become of him. He is a lord, a prince, ironborn, and the ironborn do not wallow in their misery. They do not meagrely except the decrees of other men upon their lives. Not even the women cry, on the Iron Islands. Not even the thralls would let themselves be seen in such a state. But as his weeping crashes into him like a wave, so strong he coughs against the weight of each heaving sob, he can’t bring himself to care. Perhaps his time as a hostage has made him a coward. Perhaps he always was one.

There’s no one down here to judge him, no one here to think less. And it no longer matters where Theon is from. At the Wall, there are no houses, no sigils; the only lands that matter is that massive tower of ice. All the men must despair, there. How could they not?


	9. Jon

The morning light pouring in through the open window wakes Jon slowly, creeping over his face as the sun climbs. Half asleep, bleary-eyed, it occurs to him that there is a solid, warm body in the bed next to him and for just a moment, he’s back in the inn in winter town with Theon — until he lifts his head and sees Robb laying on his back, awake, staring pensively at the beams of Jon’s ceiling.

“Robb?” Jon’s voice croaks with sleep, and Robb turns his head.

“Jon…” His brother looks so solemn that Jon finds it hard to meet his eyes. “Jon, listen to me, I’ve been thinking on it. I’ve been up most of the night. There’s no way to keep Theon a prince. If the king has ordered him to renounce his titles and claims and take the black, and if Father and the Hand of the King won’t counsel the king otherwise, then I can’t see what good we can do for him here. But… but perhaps we can provide him a suitable alternative. Or if not _suitable_ then… tolerable. He may still be sleeping on straw beds amongst the livestock, but — but perhaps he needn’t be left to the fate of the Night’s Watch. And then when I’m Lord of Winterfell, I can allow him pardon to return.”

Jon frowns. “What do you mean?”

Robb’s face is grave. Whatever is on his mind is serious, and quite possibly dangerous.

“We might be caught. We could — Theon could get caught as well. It could… it could mean death for him, Jon.”

“What could? What are you talking about?”

Robb swallows, measuring his thoughts. “We could help him to escape. Escape Winterfell.” 

Jon’s jaw drops, but Robb shakes his head before he tries to interrupt.

“We could,” he says quickly, heading off any protests, “we could do it. I’ve been thinking on it since we snuck into see him together that first night. The guards are not watchful. They don’t mistrust Theon, and they certainly don’t suspect us. It's all a formality, for the king, for the southern lords, to show that Father does not favour him unduly. We could lure the guards away somehow like we did that night and smuggle him outside the walls. At night, while the castle sleeps. Send him with a mount and supplies and let him ride away. Perhaps not to return to the Iron Islands. The journey would be too dangerous, and every man in the North would be searching for him. And even if he were to make it to the Iron Islands, if his uncle’s men found him before his sister’s did…” Jon shudders, and Robb frowns. “But perhaps, instead, he can escape across the Narrow Sea. To the Free Cities. Beyond the Seven Kingdoms and beyond the reach of the king. There might not be honour and glory in it, but he would be free. He’s not been truly free in over half his years. To have his liberty at last, it may be worth it, to Theon.”

It would be, Jon realizes. Despite his shock, despite his brother’s sudden flirting with treason, a smile breaks out across his face, imagining racing down to the dungeons to share the idea with Theon. Pictures how the thought would bloom across his handsome face and brighten his eyes.

Still, in a selfish way, it is worse. At the Wall, at least Theon would not be a fugitive. Jon entertained his old idea of joining the Watch himself, begging the Lord Commander to send him wherever he had sent Theon. If he hadn’t lost his mind from the cold and isolation and the vows he had been forced to swear, Jon would be able to see him again, and live beside him until the end of their days. It wouldn’t be as it was, perhaps, but they would be together.

Blinking, he looks away. If they went through with this, Theon would be free. Perhaps sleeping on straw beds now and again would be worth liberty to a man like Theon Greyjoy. Despite himself, despite the lump forming in his throat, the thought brings a smile to Jon’s face. Theon could do well, in the Free Cities. He is bright, when he needs to be. He is skilled with both arms and letters, could be sellsword, a guard in a nobleman's household, a scribe, could join a crew as a sailor and captain his own ship one day. And he’d be free to write them, if only under coded location. 

And Jon would wait for him, for his return. Robb would grant him a pardon, when he became Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and Theon could come back a free man, if he wished.

After too long a silence Robb asks him, “Is it that bad an idea?”

“No,” Jon assures quietly, “no, it’s perfect. Just — I will still miss him.”

Robb’s face crumples, a morose sort of smile on his face. “Aye, I know,” he says gently, “myself as well.”

“You would do that? You would… defy Father, like that? Defy the king? For Theon?”

“I would,” replies Robb, propping himself up on an elbow. “It’s not right, Jon. It’s not right how King Robert seeks to react to Euron Greyjoy's treachery. Plotting to end the Greyjoy line. Even before I knew about you two, I believed that.” 

It does not infuriate Jon as it had before. Instead, he just feels something shatter in his heart, and starts to weep.

“I’m sorry,” Jon sniffs, scrubbing at his eyes, “that I — that I said those things to you. About your sense of justice, and that you — you don’t care. It was shameful of me. You've never been anything but true and faithful to him. To us both. I know it’s not true, what I said yesterday. I know that you love him as well.” He expects Robb to say something, insist he does, perhaps, but Robb just sits quietly, and pets at Jon’s back, letting him finish. “I hadn’t meant to be so — so selfish, I just…”

Ashamed, Jon trails off, and Robb finally decides to speak. 

“It’s alright, Jon. I was just surprised.” Smiling, he adds, “I don’t think I have ever seen you so angry with me before. Not even the time when I called you a bastard as a child.”

Pitifully, Jon tries to laugh, but it only worsens his sobs. Tisking, Robb pulls his brother close and lets him weep.

As his sobs die down, Robb ruffles his hair and pulls away. “If we’re to miss him at all, it’s better to miss him knowing he’s happy and free, is it not? And to know that it is not forever, that he’ll be gone.”

Jon nods. “Yes, yes it is better.” 

A thought springs to mind of himself living at Winterfell, older, perhaps living as a knight, or captain of the household guard, when Robb sends an envoy to the Free Cities with a pardon. Envisions the moment Theon arrives in Winterfell, grown older and and darker in the southern sun as he rides through the gate. It will have been years, Jon knows, but Theon will always look the same to him. He’ll always feel the same, when Jon runs across the yard to the castle gates and throws his arms around him, welcoming him back. He’ll smell the same, when Jon breathes in deep from pressed against Theon’s skin. They will have so much to tell one another.

With a shuddering breath, Jon nods again. “I — I can wait for him. If he is free.”

Robb’s smile pulls tense around the edges, his eyes sad. It will be years, and it will be hard. But Jon will wait for him. And Robb, honest and gentle man that he is, will wait alongside him.

“I can wait,” Jon repeats.

When they finally leave Jon’s room, it’s late enough in the morning that breakfast has already been served. When Jon and Robb wander past the kitchens, Jon peeks past the door and, seeing it deserted, slips inside. Theon had done this with him once. He wonders, as Robb follows, if he’d ever done it with Robb before.

There’s remnants of the morning’s meal, and Jon makes himself a plate to pick at. He had skipped many meals, the last few nights. But now, with the a renewed fervor, his appetite has returned. Piling eggs onto a slice of bread, Jon starts in on the leftover scraps. Robb follows his lead, smirking to himself. 

“You will come with me down to the dungeons, then?” Robb asks as he swallows a heaping forkful of egg. “We can inform Theon together.”

Touched, Jon nods. Robb it seems, will not make the same mistake twice.

They finish their meal together. It’s well after midday when they venture down to the dungeons. Theon is a barely visible lump curled tight underneath his furs. 

The bolt creaks sharply as Jon pulls it back, hands shaking as he hisses through the iron bars, “Theon. Theon, wake up.” Theon doesn’t, but Jon flings the gate open and runs to the straw mattress and crawls on top of it, shaking Theon’s shoulders. “Theon, wake up. It’s Robb and me. Please wake up, we — we have a plan.”

The way Theon wakes is slowly, and then all at once.

“Jon — _Jon!_ ” 

Before he’s had the time to realize himself, Theon shoots upright, throws his arms tight around Jon’s back, squeezing him close. Shocked, Jon squirms, but Theon doesn’t release him, only locks his arms tight. Jon can feel him shivering, and runs his hand anxiously through Theon’s hair.

“We have a plan, Theon,” says Jon slowly, as if he were talking to a startled horse. “We have a plan to keep you from the Wall.”

“Shh, in a moment,” Theon whispers, so quiet Jon thinks he may not have meant for Jon to hear. “All of that in just — just a moment.”

Jon falls silent, and the air around them stirs, fragile and brittle as flakes of ice. It’s a moment before Jon thinks to remember Robb, and glances back at him standing rigid just inside the cell door. Eyes are wide, mouth fallen open, as if the image before him robbed him of whatever thought he was about to voice. 

For a moment, Jon holds Robb’s eyes, equally disquieted.

He tries again, “Th — Theon?”

Theon doesn’t respond this time, only burrows to Jon’s chest. It seizes something in Jon’s heart, and he swallows back a swell of affection, cupping the back of Theon’s skull. It’s different now, Jon realizes dully. With such a sudden limit on their remaining time, it seems that Theon no longer cares at all to hide what Jon means to him, even from Robb. Guilt of it is like a stone at the pit of Jon’s stomach. He had meant to come see him, last night, after the guards had switched shifts. After Robb had left him with the terrible word that had come from the capital. He had never meant to leave Theon alone with this news. 

Time seems to move too slowly. Each second ticks past as an hour would. Jon’s not sure how long he and Theon sit curled into each other before Theon finally pulls back, clearing his throat.

“Alright, then, so what’s this — what’s this foolishness you two were talking about?” Theon cups Jon’s cheek, and whatever answer Jon had leaves his tongue in an instant. The touch is so careful, and his face so blatantly open. “A plan, you have? What is it?”

“We’re going to help you escape from being sent to take the black,” Robb pipes up finally, voice raw, as if he’s not spoken in days, “out of the North, to the Free Cities.”

Theon starts. It seems he hadn’t fully realized Robb’s presence at all until now. Jon expects him to move away, now that he knows he’s being watched, but instead he only looks at Robb impassively, tilting his head.

“Are you joking?”

“No,” Jon assures, finally finding his voice again. “It will be dangerous, but Robb says — Robb says once he’s Warden of the North he’ll grant you a pardon and you can — you can come back.” _to me,_ Jon doesn’t add, clearing his throat to rid the threat of tears from his voice. 

“Don’t speak such nonsense,” Theon says. “That’s mad.”

“But —” Jon says at the exact moment Robb huffs,

“Theon!”

Shaking his head, Theon lets his arms finally drop fully from Jon’s back. “That’s a ridiculous idea. Foolhardy and dangerous. What possibly leads to you think that I would be safe? I would be an outlaw, alone in the wilderness. Every man in the North would be hunting me. I’d never survive it. And you two, your lord father could have the both of you imprisoned and disinherited for such treasonous acts, if you’re caught.”

“We won’t be caught,” Jon says with more confidence than he feels.

“Of course it’s dangerous,” Robb says then, “but is it not worth it? To be free?”

Theon squints at him. “What?”

“You’ll be free there,” Jon says gently. He misses Theon’s arms around him, and looks down at where they sit in Theon’s lap. “Free to make your own way, live as you please. You’d only be an outlaw for — for a fortnight or so. Until you left the North. Once you take a ship, you’d be free. Won’t have to — to answer to anyone. Not as a hostage, not as a ward, not as a son or a lord. Isn’t that better than — than joining the Night’s Watch?”

“Not if it’s going to get you killed,” Theon says bitterly, but Jon sees something hesitant pass over Theon’s face. “And I would have to live with the scorn of it. I’d be named a coward for the rest of my days.”

“And what does that matter if you are free and safe and whole? Laugh in all their faces, if they name you a coward. That’s what you would have done, before. You’ll be beyond their reach,” Jon insists. “And you’ll be free, Theon. We could — Robb could grant you pardon in a few year’s time. The Free Cities are warm, there’s work and coin to be found, and you can — you can be safe there. No one would look for you there.”

“And what if —”

“Theon, please,” Jon interrupts, “this is better, you know it is. I said I’d — I’d do everything in my power to be sure no harm would come to you, and I meant it. This is what I can offer. Please, take it.”

“The Wall is forever,” Robb adds, “not even the king can release you from your vows there, and he clearly has no interest in your wellbeing or that of your homeland. But I — I could grant you pardon, from fleeing the North as an outlaw and a fugitive. I could grant you pardon when I’m Warden of the North and you’d be safe to return then, if you wished.”

“This is madness,” Theon says, shaking his head, but Jon shoves him.

“You’re being stubborn,” Jon snaps, and Robb and Theon both fall silent. “You would never have peace at the Wall. You always used to say so when I spoke of it. And you would be there as part of a sham, a plot to end your house and rob you of your title by right. Bound for life at the end of the world for a treachery that wasn’t even yours. I can’t bear to send you there, not like that.”

“You’re not the one sending me there,” Theon assures softly.

“Shut _up,_ ” Jon groans. He shoves Theon’s chest again, taking hold of his linen tunic and giving him an angry shake. “I — I promised you, Theon. I promised I’d keep you safe. And you’d not be safe at the Wall. Not you. Misery alone would kill you there, if the cold and the wildings didn’t. But the Free Cities are beyond the reach of the king, and you could find refuge in a port city by the sea, in Braavos or Pentos or Lys. It’s not the Iron Islands, I know that. It’s not your homeland, and it’s not fair that you should have to live in exile, but you could be content, and _free_ and I wouldn’t spend — spend every _waking moment_ worried that you — that you’d gone mad up in the cold alone.”

Quiet settles over the three of them then, and Jon feels a tendril of embarrassment curl along his spine. He hadn’t meant to say it all with such force. Realizing himself, he drops hold of his grip on Theon’s tunic and sits back on his heels. 

Theon just gapes at him as if he has been kicked by a horse.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon sees Robb looking at his feet. 

Shamed, Jon snaps finally, eyes pinned on Theon, “Well, say something.”

It seems to knock sense back into Theon, and he gives himself a dazed shake. He looks away, kicking the straw lining the floor of his cell. His shoulders heave in a sigh. 

“Fine, then.”

Relief washes over Jon, air leaving him like the huff of a laugh. 

The corner of Theon’s mouth twitches, a nervous, hesitant smile. “Well, if you’re that insistent I suppose I really have no choice in the matter. I know how you are once you’ve made up your mind.”

Eyes watering, Jon’s face breaks into a grin. He’s shivering, and Theon’s hands abruptly move to rub warmth into his arms. 

“It’s always been such a fucking nightmare, telling you no.”

A wet, short laugh bursts Jon’s mouth, but he doesn’t feel any relief. Realization starts to sink into his skin. Robb will pardon Theon when he inherits Winterfell, but that won’t be until after Father has died, years and years from now. Perhaps by then, Theon will have made a new life for himself, found himself a new lover, numerous lovers, a wife and children, and have no inclination to return. Whether he goes to the Wall or the Free Cities, Jon understands suddenly, he may never see Theon again either way.

The weight of the thought crushes him, but Jon shakes it away and flings his arms around Theon’s neck in spite of it. Theon holds him close, laughing a little madly, as unabashed as he had been moments ago, and Jon breathes in the scent of him.

“All right, then,” Theon murmurs, voice soft and muffled in Jon’s shoulder. “How are we going to go about enacting this scheme of yours? Planning to smuggle me out in a rug?”

Silence. Robb clears his throat, and Jon sits back on his heels.

“We’ve not yet worked out the details,” Jon says firmly. “There was no point in it if you wouldn’t agree to go.”

Theon laughs at that, head tossed back, loud enough that the skin around his eyes crinkles. It’s an old laugh, one Jon hasn’t seen from him since before his imprisonment. It makes warmth pool at the pit of Jon’s stomach, despite himself.

“Oh, is that so,” Theon chuckles, “I had a choice, did I? I’d no idea.”

With a huff, Jon punches his shoulder, and Theon laughs again. 

“I’m joking, Snow. It’s a right foolish plan, but I must admit Braavos or Lys appeal to me far more than your dear Castle Black, even if you hadn’t twisted my arm into such a thing.”

Jon smiles, proud of himself. Theon has always appreciated his bullheadedness.

“We have some idea,” Robb says, inching closer to Theon’s bed. “We know we’ll bring you up from your cell some time after midnight, distract the guardsmen away somehow. Have a saddlebag packed for you of food and supplies. I’ll have to steal you a horse.”

“Steal me a horse from your lord’s own stables!” Theon says, turning to grin at him. “I’ve turned you into quite the little criminal, haven’t I, Stark? My father’d be right proud of me.”

As he says it, his smile falls. In all the turmoil of the last month, it seems, he’d forgotten for at least a moment that his father is dead. His eyes drop, finding something suddenly of more interest in the wall beside him as he gathers his thoughts. It feels wrong to watch him, and Jon turns his gaze to Robb.

“I suppose it’s good you’ve come to me before forming a plan anyway, then,” Theon says after a moment. His voice would never betray that he’d had to swallow back tears. “Lord Stark hasn’t instilled any such values in either of you. You’ll need all the help you can get.”

“Aye,” Jon says, forcing his smile back onto his face. “We will surely need your counsel.”


	10. Theon

“Has it been another day already,” Theon jokes, when both Jon and Robb descend the dungeon stairwell and make their their way into his cell, Jon carrying a flagon of wine.

It couldn’t possibly. Theon doesn’t sleep as much as he used to, down here. Not since Jon and Robb started making such regular visits. And since coming to him this morning brimming with a half-formed plan of adventurous escape, Theon’s had been compelled by an energetic buzz under his skin. Barely able to contain himself within this cell as it is, pacing from one side to the other when he listing down ideas of what must be done between the three of them and keeping the notes folded neatly in the toes of his boots.

“I couldn’t keep him away,” Robb says with a laugh. When Theon looks at Jon, he’s nearly bouncing on his toes. “Jon wants to make plans and ready the day. At least that’s what he’s said.”

Jon’s face turns pink. “I — I’m a little eager,” he admits shyly. “Father has called a few bannermen from the Hornwood and Barrowton to serve as your escort, and a few more have arrived, vying for the privilege. There isn’t a day to spare. And I thought, well — if this works it will still be some time after your escape that I’ll… that we see you again, so I…” The energy seems to seep from him instantly, until he remembers the flagon in his hand and gives it a shake. “I brought wine.”

Ignoring the itch in his hands, Theon reaches for the flagon. “Well, at least there’s that.”

“Father won’t be needing either of us this evening,” Robb says as he makes himself comfortable on the stone floor of Theon’s cell. “He knows that I’m angry with him, for backing the king’s decision to send you to the Wall. He has been letting me avoid him.”

Theon takes a pull from the wine. He already feels out of his depth, for whatever conversation may befall them this evening. “Has he, now? And you’ve always had such a masterful grasp of your emotions, little lord.”

Robb plucks a rock from the floor and lobs it at Theon’s leg. It doesn’t connect, and clacks loudly against the floor by Theon’s shoe. “Sit down,” Robb tells him in a commanding tone, “We’ve got many matters to discuss.”

The three of them spend over an hour crowded together on the stone floor, passing the flagon of wine between the three of them until it’s empty. Theon shares his reckoning of the guard’s shifts, the ones who would be most easy to distract, and Jon and Robb think them over on how each plan might be executed. There are two pairs of guardsmen that stand in their path. Those at the entrance to the dungeons, and those posted as the King’s Road gate. Four men stand between Theon and escape. They will have to be drawn away somehow. They would have Robb gather a horse; even at such a late hour, no stable boy would question the heir to Winterfell if he asked for a readied mount. 

Jon has taken a small map from the library, a crude traveller’s map with simple ink lines indicating the road, the rivers, holdfasts across the North. He’s drawn the route Theon will take. East to the White Knife, then following the river south to White Harbour. All three of them have ridden to the White Knife before, that part of the journey Jon knows well. He’s eager to instruct Theon on the best way to the river.

Theon watches him. Something possessive curls in his chest as he recognizes the fact that Jon would not never be plotting against his father without Theon’s influence. Barring even the thought that he’d never forsake his father’s wishes if he did not care for Theon, he would have never developed his own ideas on how to do so, either.

Oddly proud, Theon leans over as he’s talking and kisses his hair. It interrupts Jon’s speaking and he falters, suddenly falling shy. All talk halts.

Theon smirks. Robb looks uncomfortably at the floor.

Theon should feel bad for it, but he can’t. Time is slipping away. He’s not got too much longer before he either must escape this cell for the Narrow Sea, or be marched northwards to the Wall. Either way, his time with Jon is ending. Even when Theon was first imprisoned down here, certain of his death being mere hours away, time hadn’t seemed to move so quickly. Now, it seems like any moment could be the last one he spends with them.

Restless, Theon gets to his feet. Jon clears his throat, tries to continue his thought, mainly to Robb. Theon wanders off, takes a seat on his bed and watches the two of them hatch a new idea entirely. His hand is still wrapped around the flagon, long since empty, but Theon tips it to his mouth for something to do before setting it on the floor at his feet.

Jon has gone quiet again, and Robb has nothing new to say. Clearly unsure of what to do, Robb scratches the dry quill in his hand against the map, watching the line that the point carves. Theon has seen him do that before, when he wants to look as if he’s thinking or paying attention during the maester’s lessons. Is he as scared as Theon is about this foolish plan? Is he plagued by what could happen if it goes wrong? Or is he thinking of something else entirely, bored now, of Theon’s troubles after focusing on them for so long?

In the cell, the three of them have been quiet for too long. The silence is torturous. Talk used to be so easy between the three of them; jokes and snipes and arguments, as regular as breathing. Now, every utterance, no matter how trivial, is confessional, is final. It must be that way now, Theon knows. It is the nature of things. Never can they go back to being those carefree boys of summer. Truely, they had always known it would happen, in a way, that sunny childhood days would come to an end, but Theon never imagined it would be like this. So sudden, so fast. He is not ready. 

And so Theon mourns. Mourns his boyhood companions, though he sits amongst them at this very moment. Those three boys they were are lost to summer now. The three of them are so changed from how they used to be, and though the years have made them wiser — and he does believe they have, truly, despite everything — he will miss how they were, forever. 

Theon watches Robb glancing out the high barred window, tracking the golden rays of the setting sun. Soon, he will mention that it’s getting late, and then he and Jon will walk back up those stone steps, and Theon’s not certain if he will see either of them again. 

Would Jon be there, when he made his escape? Would Robb? One of them may be needed to distract the guards, and Theon will never see him ever again.

The thought churns dark and heavy inside him. “Jon —” he manages, “Jon, can — can you stay a moment?”

No one had spoken of leaving yet. Robb, their reluctant chaperone, hasn’t said a word. But gods, Theon has grown so forlorn and pathetic, down here, but it doesn’t stop him. He reaches for Jon, and Jon — kind, obliging thing that he is — shuffles over and sits beside him on Theon’s straw mattress. 

Robb tenses, looks away, instantly unwelcome, but Theon tries to assuage him.

“Forgive me, Stark. I’m just… I’m just tired.”

Back straight, Robb nods. “Of — of course.” He looks at Jon a moment before giving him a stiff nod, as well. “I’ll just be up the stairs, I suppose.” He adds to Jon with something hard in his voice, “Don’t — try to be… try to be quick.”

How lost and excluded he sounds, tripping over his words. Theon understands what that feels like. He doesn’t want to hurt Robb that way, not when it’s one of the last things he might ever do for him. 

“Wait, Robb, don’t go,” he calls, keeping his face turned away. Robb stops, halfway to the heavy barred door and turns back to look at them. “Don’t leave if you don’t wish to, Stark. You have me wrong; I’m not aiming to letch over your brother behind your back. I only want — I only want to sleep.” 

Robb cocks his head, not understanding, but Jon lets out a heavy sigh of relief and nods. 

He shuffles onto his back, head resting against the wall, expectant, and Theon stares down at him, feeling a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, despite himself. He can feel Robb watching as he lays beside him, curls tight against Jon’s chest, head resting on his shoulder. It should matter to him, he knows, to be seen by the heir to Winterfell like this. He remembers it mattering so much once that he would have rather died of shame than shown Robb this side of him. But he’s so tired. And his time here is numbered. And gods, Jon is warm.

There’s silence for a moment. Jon strokes at Theon’s hair, and his eyes drift closed. He’ll miss this. He hadn’t meant to ever need it quite so much, but now he doubts he’ll ever sleep as well without it.

“Theon…?” Robb’s voice is hoarse. How long had it been since he’s spoken? Theon opens his eyes, questioning. Robb clears his throat. “Can I — that is, if neither of you mind, I — can I join you?”

Theon glances up at Jon. They share a brief look before Theon rises, sitting up to shuffle to the other side of Jon, curled up on Jon’s chest and facing the newly open space that sits against the wall. Jon pats the space lightly, and Robb’s shoes scrape against the stone floor until he crawls over the foot of the mattress and sits cross-legged between Jon and the wall of the cell, facing Theon with a watery smile. It’s cramped, the three of them together, especially when Robb doesn’t lie down, but it’s warm, and comfortable, and Theon smiles.

For a moment, the air around them is silent and still once again, but then Robb reaches out and laces Theon’s fingers with his own, nesting them both against Jon’s side.

Theon smirks, cracking an eye open. “Why, Stark. I never knew you for such a harlot.”

With a sniffling laugh, Robb grumbles, “Shut up, Greyjoy.”

“Only teasing, little lord,” Theon assures him, chuckling and giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I know you would never dream of doing something so cruel to your brother.”

Above him, Jon makes an odd sound. A wet sort of gasp. Probably a laugh, or one of his scandalized scoffs, but the tears welling in his throat renders it weepy. Theon doesn’t look up to see if he’s right. He’d rather not know. 

Sighing, he presses a kiss to the leather jerkin over Jon’s chest and rests his head back, closing his eyes again.

It’s not long before Jon’s fingers tousle Theon’s hair, gentle and calming. He turns his face into Jon’s shoulder. It’s quiet and peaceful around them and for a moment, Theon lets himself pretend nothing will change. They are boys again, tired from a day of riding and swordplay and adventuring. Fallen asleep after tussling in the woods. They used to do that, as young boys, hole up in Robb's room after a day of playing and adventure, strip of their boots and nap in Robb's great big bed, he and Jon on either side of the little heir, too tired to keep up trading barbs. With his eyes closed like this, they could all just be bundled in his chambers this way. 

He must look asleep after a while, because Robb asks in a low whisper, “Does he do this often?”

“How do you mean?” 

Theon barely refrains from rolling his eyes. Jon’s always been such a terrible liar.

Robb at least plays along. “When he asked you to stay. You knew why. So that he could fall asleep.”

Jon is quiet for a moment. He toys with a curl at Theon’s neck. It’s such a sweet touch that Theon actually starts to doze.

“He does it for me,” Jon finally says. “We’ve gotten used to it now, I suppose.”

Robb’s thumb rolls over Theon’s knuckles. He doesn’t have anything to say to that, it seems. They don’t speak any further for quite some time. Theon keeps his eyes shut and pretends. It’s colder than his chambers in the keep, but with Jon so warm beneath him and all his pelts and blankets, it’s hard to tell the difference. He just wishes they could stay. He wishes that everything could just stay.

“We should head back, Jon. It will be supper soon. They will notice, if we are gone so late.”

At first, Jon’s response is only silence. Finally, he lets out a sharp gasp, and his words come out almost a sob. “I don’t want to.”

Theon’s free hand instantly wrests tight in Jon’s doublet. Breathing deep, exhaling, Jon’s chest shudders against him. For a moment, Theon is worried Robb might have realized that he’s awake, but he only lifts his hand to wipe his face.

“Can I have — just another moment? I’ll — I’ll be just… just behind you, I promise. Just let me speak with him in private, please.”

Robb doesn’t say anything, but the silence itself is judgemental. Then, Theon feels the mattress dip as he leans forward to press a kiss to his brother’s temple. Shyly, he squeezes Theon’s hand a last time before standing from the mattress and leaving the cell. The iron gate creaks behind him as he goes.

Footsteps echo up the staircase and then Jon whispers, “Theon?”

He sounds so heartbroken, and Theon can’t stand it. Shifting, Theon sits up, raises his head and presses a kiss to his neck. “Don’t weep over me, Snow. This was your idea. I’m happy for it.”

“I — I’m not…”

“No?” Theon asks, running his thumb under Jon’s eye to wipe away fresh tears. “Not weeping over me, then who are these tears for?”

Jon only shakes his head. Staunch denial is a family trait, it would seem. Smirking, Theon leans up and presses a kiss to Jon’s mouth. 

“You needn’t cry so much,” Theon tells him in between kisses. His voice is raw and breathless, and he can feel Jon trembling beneath him. “What — what can I do to stop your crying, Snow? What is it you’d like? Tell me, and you shall have it.”

“Can —” Jon’s voice is barely a hush, and Theon leans closer to hear him. “Can I touch you?”

The question catches Theon off-guard, and he leans back a little to look him in the eye. “What?”

“Please, Theon…” Jon swallows, tears welling in his grey eyes again. “Nothing more, I just want to touch you.”

It’s not what Theon expected. He feels abruptly, strangely, out of his depth. “Alright.”

Releasing a long, loud breath, Jon leads Theon onto his back, searching hands warm over his clothes. A bare whisper of a touch so soft that Theon shivers under his fingers, struck dumb by the look of reverence on Jon’s face. How could anyone look at him with such naked affection? He’s not sure how he’s supposed to respond to such a thing. It’s hard to meet Jon’s eyes.

“I miss you,” murmurs Jon, pressing closer. There is a hand between Theon’s legs and he gasps at the forceful way Jon tears the laces free. “Gods, I miss you.”

“I’m right here,” Theon jokes weakly.

Jon ignores him, fingers suddenly beneath his clothes, tight around Theon’s cock. The touch is staggering, blinding. Gods, had it been so long? Since Jon last touched him, last kissed him. From a summer a lifetime ago. He gasps, back arching up into Jon, fervent and mindless.

Too long, it has been. Too long and not enough. Theon could weep.

“You’re so beautiful,” Jon whispers, burying his face into Theon’s throat as he strokes him, languid and slow and firm. “Did I ever tell you that enough? I couldn't have. It’s not enough to think on you alone in my room, Theon. I want to have you. Like this.”

His voice breaks over tears, Theon can hear it before Jon leans back far enough for Theon to see his eyes, shining in dim light. Jon’s thumb brushes over the head of his cock, and Theon jerks and writhes underneath him, eager, sensitive beyond reason.

“Jon —”

“Shh, just —” Jon’s free hand flings out to brace himself against Theon’s mattress and he hovers close. “Just let me touch you. Please.”

There’s adoration in his voice that sparks at the base of Theon’s spine. Jon’s eyes rivet on his face, dark and transfixing, and Theon feels himself melting into it. Captured by it. Will this be the last time Jon ever touches him this way? Will this be the last time he knows this feeling? Of being seen and caught and surrendered? He remembers trying this himself only just the night before — the focus it took, the futility, the way it clenched around his heart. But now, his whole body yields into Jon’s rough touch, his eyes rolling back. He is helpless; on fire.

“Gods, Jon —”

“That’s it,” Jon whispers, interrupting with a loud breath, “gods, that’s it. You’ll come for me, won’t you? I — I need to see you, when you — when you come like this.”

“ _Fuck,_ ” Theon’s body cracks like a whip and unspools all at once, over so soon, so sudden, falling slack against his furs as Jon strokes him through the release. “Fuck, Jon, that’s —”

“Shh,” Jon presses a kiss to Theon’s throat, “don’t say anything. Just let me look at you.”

The request strikes Theon silent. The silence between them is more fragile than glass as Jon’s eyes search him, and Theon swallows against the lump of emotion in his throat. No one has ever looked at him that way, the way Jon does when they lie together. Wanted. Possessive. No one has ever wanted Theon in all his life. Save for Jon Snow.

The quiet stretches. Alone, Theon’s staggered panting breath echos in the narrow cell. Discomfort starts to itch in Theon’s skin, but he dares not move, can’t look away. Jon seems to be holding his breath.

“I’m glad for everything, Theon,” Jon tells him finally. “For all of it. I’m glad it was you. That everything — everything was with you.”

It chokes him now, and Theon struggles to take a shuddering breath. Jon wipes the tears from his own face. With a deep breath he bends down to kiss Theon’s face. Mercifully, makes no mention of Theon’s tears. 

Jon touches his hair, smiles sadly. “I’ll never be anything but grateful. I hope you understand.”

Too choked to speak, Theon only nods. Silently, he reaches for Jon, but Jon only takes his hand and kisses his knuckles, like a knight does with a maiden.

“Robb is waiting. I have to go.”

Shamefully, Theon shakes his head. It’s worth death to keep Jon at his side. Being alone now will kill him, regardless. Jon can’t leave him. He can’t. Theon won’t survive it. He clenches his hand around Jon’s fingers and tugs them toward his chest. _Stay_ he wants to say. _Stay with me._ He opens his mouth, desperate to beg, but nothing comes out. Words fail. It’s as if his tongue is torn from his mouth. It doesn’t matter. Jon only ignores his foolish attempts and kisses him again.

“I’m yours, Theon. Do remember that. No matter what happens now, I am yours until the end of my days.”

It’s not fair. Jon must know it, that Theon is his as well. He must know it to be true. Theon has told him so, before. But Jon does not say it now. And Theon can’t manage the words. If he opens his mouth again, he’ll break down to tears. Sob until he loses his mind. He can’t do that, even now. Jon weeps enough for the both of them.

With a melancholy little smile, Jon hops down from Theon’s bed, wiping the tears from his eyes once again and dashing from the cell, latching the door behind him before darting up the stairs.

At his absence, the effort to hold himself together shatters, and a harrowing sob rips from Theon’s throat. He curls into himself, tears spilling hot and shameless over his face. A futile rage surges within and he slams his fist into the mattress, once, twice. It does nothing. The warmth and glow from his release curdles in the pit of his stomach, and he drops his head into his arms and weeps.

It wasn’t meant to be like this, Theon tells himself. He’d never meant for any of this. How had he let it come to this? Silly, helpless attachment to any northerner he happened to bed. Why out of everyone in this frozen wasteland did it have to be Jon who captured him? Once, Theon had tried to tell himself this would have never happened had he had the sense to stay away, but he knows that to be untrue. Even as a boy, Jon had always had some odd sort of hold on Theon. As the small, love-starved child Theon had seen himself in, years before it became anything more, Theon knew he would always have a weakness in Jon Snow. Had known it from the moment Jon first vyed for his attention, the way no one else had ever done.

“Fuck,” Theon whispers aloud, the memory of Jon’s declaration from moments ago still ringing in his head. “I’m such a damned fool.”

The starlight is fading into muted daybreak by the time Theon’s sobs have exhausted him enough that he finally sleeps, dreaming of Jon whispering promises into his skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys so... 8.03 really fucked me up and my father had a minor stroke the same day, so. I'm still going to be posting on (more or less) the same schedule but this note is a formal apology for if I don't respond to your comments. I'm not ignoring them. I still read them every day and they make my day.


	11. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kind words re: my last note. :3 They're very much appreciated.

Jon isn’t quite sure what he’s doing here, outside the door to his father's solar, just knows that he couldn’t stay away. If Father’s own firstborn son and heir could not sway his resolve then surely his bastard will have no better luck. But Jon would never forgive himself if he didn’t try. Try one last time to secure Theon's liberty.

And so he draws himself up, knocks on the heavy wooden door of his father’s solar and waits.

His father’s voice calls, “Come in.”

Opening the door, Jon sees his father seated at his massive carved oak desk, sprawled over with papers and ledgers. He sets down his quill and moves away from whatever he’s writing to face his son in the doorway.

“Jon, what is it?”

It takes a moment for Jon to gather himself. He glances behind himself and shuts the door, assembling his thoughts.

“Thank you for seeing me, Father. I wished to speak with you,” he says carefully, “about… Greyjoy.”

The heavy look on his father’s face pulls tight in a frown. “Aye,” he says gravely, “I suppose it was foolish to think that you wouldn’t.”

Unsure of what his father means by that, Jon doesn’t respond. He swallows hard and takes a step toward his father’s desk, trying to keep his head up and shoulders square.

“Father, it isn’t right. Greyjoy is neither a conspirator nor a criminal. He has committed no offense,” Jon says, keeping his voice measured. “Sending him to the Wall against his wishes is an unjust thing to do. He has done nothing to warrant such punishment.”

“What the king requests of me is the king’s justice, Jon,” Father responds. “The king’s justice is all we have.”

“That isn’t true,” Jon says firmly, “you know it isn’t.”

Father does not appreciate being questioned, and his face darkens. “The Night’s Watch is a path of honour for any man, Jon,” he says then. Jon has heard the phrase so often now it feels like a jape. He shakes his head, but Lord Stark holds up his hand, unfinished. “Theon is well trained in combat and strategy, and a literate man. He could achieve a position of high rank in Night’s Watch. I’ll do what I can to have the Lord Commander send him to Eastwatch. He could captain a ship there.” 

Do what he can. It’s all he’s said since this started. Jon swallows hard and holds his ground. 

“It isn’t right, to send him away. He’s rightful heir and last living son of Lord Balon Greyjoy, and it isn’t his father who’s broken an oath to the king. And even if it were, I refuse to believe you would think it fair or just to punish Lord Greyjoy for his father’s transgressions. His house and family have always strained against mainland rule, but the treachery was not his; he remains innocent in this.”

Raising his eyebrows, Lord Stark lets out a short huff of derision. “The Greyjoys have never been a house to value fairness or innocence, Jon,” he says flatly. “If I were to send him home to the Iron Islands, Lord Greyjoy’s choices would be either to join the rebellion or be slain.”

“His sister has done neither,” Jon points out, stamping his foot. It rubs raw against Jon’s heart, to hear his father speak of Theon in such a way. Has no one in this castle taken any true notice of him? “She has disputed her uncle’s claim! With an axe in her hand and an army at her back! The succession is not settled. The other ironborn houses might be brought over to the side of the throne if their lord’s surviving children are championed.”

“The ironborn follow only strength, Jon. And they are fiercely proud. They will balk at mainland forces assisting their war efforts, not fall in line behind the king that smashed their rebellion.”

”They’ve done so before. You and Robert Baratheon made them yield. That is what brought Theon to us in the first place. What of your own fight, Father?” he asks then. “You could permit Greyjoy to join his sister, to help the throne defeat his uncle. He would —”

“Jon,” Lord Stark says tersely, “war is more complicated than you may understand just yet. I do not wish to —”

“No, I do understand,” Jon snaps without thinking. “It isn’t war you’re deciding. It’s the life of a single boy.”

It takes a moment for Lord Stark to recover. Jon can’t recall ever interrupting his father before. The silence seems its own answer, and for a moment Jon feels a sense of clarity he’s never known before. Lord Stark blinks, staggered, before carefully beginning, “Lord Theon’s life is as of now at a very —”

“How can the life of one boy be the lone defining line between war and peace,” Jon hisses. A resentful anger bubbles out of him, burning along his veins. “It is not just to use us as pawns, as you do. It’s not right.”

His father has no response to that, but Jon doesn’t care. He can’t stop himself now.

“I was no different, was I?” Jon says then. “I was innocent too, yet made to bear the weight of my father's misdeeds. Why did you bring me to Winterfell, after the war? You didn’t have to acknowledge me. You could have left me with my mother, or sent me to foster like all the other lords do with their bastards. Spared your lady wife the shame of sharing a roof with me. Spare the shame on your family name and legacy. It surely did more harm than good to raise me in Winterfell. But instead, you brought me here, and for what?” He pictures Robb’s heartbroken face as he listened to the truth of Jon’s isolation. Father has no such look, impassive as the heart tree learning his secrets. “So that I might know the nearness of a family that was never to be mine? See the glory your highborn children would inherit while I quietly lived in scorn? To be a living signifier of your mistake flaunted before the realm? Shall Theon clad in black be forced to suffer as I did for his father’s shortcomings?”

“Jon —”

“I had not made the choice to stay in Winterfell any more than Theon Greyjoy had,” Jon grits through clenched teeth. “To live under the shadow of my father’s mistakes all the same.”

Lord Stark stares at him. When he stands suddenly, Jon flinches back. His carved oaken chair scrapes against the floor as it's pushed back. 

Jon swallows. He’s near tears now. He’ll lose the battle against them any moment, but he is determined to compose himself. This must be said. Part of him has been meaning to say these things for years. And he might never get the chance again.

“If nothing else, I’d hoped perhaps you had seen the error of punishing children for the failings of their families.”

He expects Father to shout at him for that, perhaps. Maybe even strike him. But instead his stoic face crumples at last, and Jon’s rage fizzles away, leaving nothing but the lonely fear he’d felt when walking into his father’s solar.

“Jon,” he says gently, all argument fled from him, “I cannot disregard the king’s direct orders. It is treason.”

“So was the war that saw to my birth,” Jon growls, clenching his fists at his side. “The Mad King murdered your father and brother and so you went to war against him. That was a treason of its own. Even Robb reminded you that. So when is treason worthy, Father? Whose justice is the true justice, then? Whatever Robert Baratheon decides is so?”

Father’s eyes burn, and Jon’s knees turn weak underneath him. He holds his ground.

Madly, the words free themselves from his mouth. “Rebel when Robert Baratheon says. Fight when Robert Baratheon says. Obey when Robert Baratheon says. Is that what it is to rule, to lead? Is that what it is to exact justice? Upon the lives of children?”

The answering silence is agonizing, and with it Jon realizes abruptly that there is no answer. Father will never know what it is to be a bastard, what it is to live in the cold shadow of condemnation and impropriety. Honour demands that Jon and Theon bear the faults of their fathers' to their woe. His tears begin to spill down his face, but he holds his father’s gaze, resolute.

Finally, Father exhales. When he speaks, he glances away from Jon’s face, just for a moment. “You know not of the things you speak. We do not get to be selfish in our lives, Jon. To rule is give up the things you want most.”

“Then perhaps it ought not be,” Jon fires back.

Again, Father falls into silence. Jon had expected his outburst would earn him a reprimand, even perhaps a strike across the face. But instead, Father only closes his eyes, rubs and hand down his face, and says nothing. It’s no use now, to discuss anything further. Father will always justify his actions, the king’s actions. Instead he will cleave to that order and that honour — if he insists to call it that — to the detriment of all else. No amount of love for Jon or his trueborn children would ever sway him.

Jon can feel a sob trapped in his throat and shakes his head, spinning on his heel and storming out of his father’s solar. He knows Father will not follow him. There are no true answers, for the questions Jon has.

He walks from the torchlit corridor to the yard outside. Sunlight hits his eyes and for a moment he looks away, but he doesn’t stop. Marching over the muddy yard, he climbs the wooden stairs to the upper walkways.

How could his father see wisdom in such action? How could his father forswear Theon’s life on the king’s whim as if he were no one? How could his father proclaim the importance of such justice and honour to Jon’s own face, ignoring his disgrace?

Jon could not have tried any harder. He is certain. He has spent his whole life trying. And what good had it done him? If there was an act, a vow, a path he might have taken that would have proved less resistant, Jon did not know what it might be. It was a lesson he had learned early as a child. So early that he cannot recall a time before he knew it, as sure a fact as his own name: to be a bastard was a dishonour. A dishonour to be suffered quietly and preferably out of sight. As a child he had hoped against hope that, perhaps, if he was quiet enough, if he was clever enough, if he was polite enough, if he was _good_ enough, then he might one day acquire enough decency and rectitude to account for the accident of his birth. A goal that was always just beyond his reach. One he bore witness to daily in his father, in his siblings, in Lady Catelyn. How was he so different from them? Because of the circumstances of his birth? Because some foreign southern gods deemed it so? That could not be just.

As his climbs the stairs and comes to the crenellated tops of the walls, Jon knew then with a cold bolt of clarity, that he had been lied to. There was no act so great, no oath he might swear, no praise he might win, that would account for the offense of being born Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard son. The world would never forgive him that. Not ever.

Jon paces the wooden walks that circle the inner side of the castle walls. Planks creak and thud under his leather-soled boot as he marches, laps the whole castle once, twice, needing to move and keep moving to abate the anger in his body. On the western side, he passes the hunter’s gate, crossing over the kennels and stables below. Over the crenellations of the castle wall the wolfswood yawns into the horizon.

He doesn’t stop. The dogs yap in the kennels below as he walks on. At the northern gate, the old broken tower looms. A relic from the time of Bran the Builder who raised this castle thousands of years ago. Belonging as much to the Stark legacy as Lord Eddard Stark himself. The castle itself held the family legacy that Jon would never possess, never be entitled to. It was in the air, in the woods, the moors, the whole of the North. Stark, Stark, Stark. Here was his family, his ancestors, and none of it belongs to him. Instead it was only to taunt him forever, wagering that he would return each time, knowing how helpless Jon is to be loved. And Jon will return a hundred times to the hand that shunned him if there was but a chance that this time — the last time — it would greet him with warmth and love. How could he ever abandon that hope?

Jon paces over the King’s Road gate, turns onto the southern wall that overlooks the winter town. Below, the village lies mostly deserted. Thin columns of white smoke rise from no more than three or four chimneys: the inn, the brothel, a small circle of tents where a caravan of tradesmen and farm hands have set up, here to offer their yearly tithes to the Lord of Winterfell.

The sight raises Jon’s furor anew and he laps the boardwalk again. It solves nothing. His father still stubbornly adheres to the king’s foolish and shortsighted command. Theon is still facing life as an exile or an outlaw. Robb, poor Robb, is still caught between the three of them, attempting in vain to satisfy his duty to his father, his brother, his friend. And Jon is still estranged, with a duty to what, he knows not.

Is that what he is to devote his life to? To offer up his meagre bastard honour to a realm that is only falsity underneath a proud venner of grand words and mythic iron thrones? He is not like his father: Jon has precious little honour to waste. 

After three laps, Jon comes to a stop on the boards above the King’s Road gate once again. Pounding heart in his chest, legs sore from his anxious marching. It is a bright summer day, but the air is brisk high atop the walls and his nose and cheeks chill red from the exertion. 

Despite it, a calmness of surety settles over him. So high up on the castle walls, the world is quiet around him, distant and remote. The grand and wild North spreads forth to the horizon in every direction under an infinite, cloud-flecked sky. Moorland, speckled with purple heather and twisting brambles, sweeps over hill and del as far as the eye can see. The wind pulls at Jon's hair, teasing. Beckoning him.

Steadily, Jon exhales, skin tingling. No, the way forward is clear. The choice is his own. He must seize it. Now is no time for cowardice.

It is with Theon Greyjoy that his duty lies. It was to Theon Greyjoy that he swore an oath. It was to Theon Greyjoy that he gave his word willingly. And a man must keep his word; his father had taught him.

House Stark has no want for his middling bastard honour. Has only scorned him when he tried to offer it. So he had pledged it elsewhere, as was his right to do, and he shall honour his pledge. Jon had found belonging with Theon Greyjoy, and he was not going to surrender that to anyone. Not to Robb, not to his father, and not to the king.


	12. Jon

Robb answers the door looking somewhat bleary, as if he’d been absorbed by a book or on the edge of sleep before Jon’s arrival. He smiles hesitantly — it’s the only smile he seems to offer his brother any longer. Unsure, worried. At least it seems that way for Jon.

Squaring his shoulders, Jon takes a deep breath. He has to say this now, or he’ll change his mind. He has to make the promise to himself. There’s nothing for Jon here in Winterfell, not really. Certainly not when the only one who understands him in this damned castle is leaving it. 

“When we — when we help Theon to escape,” Jon says, his voice tight, “I am going to leave with him.”

Robb’s face falls. “What?”

“I am going to leave with him. I have to. I can’t — I can’t stay here, Robb.”

Shaking his head, Robb grabs his arm and pulls him into his room. The way the door slams shut at Jon’s back feels alarmingly like being snared in a trap. “No, that’s not… That isn’t what was discussed. You said — you said you’d be able to see him off. That you could — you could wait. You said this was better for him, than the Wall.”

His voice is so raw. Jon feels like a monster. “That — that was before…”

Jon wonders, floundering, if he should tell him. Tell Robb what he had said to their father, what Father had said to him. But Robb has lost so much already, his best friend, and now his brother. Jon can’t stomach the idea of Robb losing Father, too. 

“I’m just not sure I can — I can…”

Before Jon can finish, Robb shakes his head. “No,” he says in a tone as frank and decided as Father’s, “no, you can’t. You can't go with him. You have to stay here with us. This is your home.”

The memory springs to mind of boyish and lanky Theon Greyjoy smirking down at him. _Still where I sleep, same as you._ But it was never Theon’s home, and it should never had been Jon’s, either.

“Robb, please,” he says softly, tears hot on his face. “I can’t stay here.”

“You can. Why can't you?” Robb argues, and Jon realizes abruptly that Robb has never entertained another option. “Because you are a Snow? Father will find you a worthy match, and your sons can be as trueborn as any. You can make a new name for yourself, like the Longwaters in the south. Or we could — I could ask the king to legitimize you proper, and you could be an heir just as Bran and Rickon are.”

When Jon was a child, he often fantasized of such things. Having a true name, be it Stark or something forged himself. Being just as good a son as Robb, making his father proud, and earning his own place. But as Robb speaks, Jon feels nothing. The promise no longer feels honest or right, blurted out this way, as a reason to remain abandoned in the North.

“I’ve no want for that,” Jon says finally.

“Yes you have! Don’t lie,” Robb snaps at him, his face is turning blotchy and red.

“No, I haven’t,” he admits, gentle but firm, “not any longer. I’m going with him.”

It shakes Robb to hear, Jon knows. For a moment, he has no response.

“So often, we talked of me making you a knight, when I inherit Winterfell,” Robb says at last with a watery smile. “Even when you talked about taking the black, I never thought you’d actually do it. Never thought you would leave us. As a boy, I always thought you'd stay by my side forever, that you would raise your sons alongside mine.”

Jon feels tension twist brutally in his throat. He shakes his head. “I — I don’t think I can do that, now.”

“Aye, fine, perhaps not sons —”

“No,” Jon interrupts softly, and Robb falls abruptly silent. “Any of it.”

Before, when they were boys, Jon had treasured the idea of staying by his brother’s side all of his days. Growing old, marrying, raising their children alongside one another in Winterfell as they had been raised together. It seemed the best sort if life that Jon was likely to achieve, and he had learned long ago never to want more than he was granted. But the idea of living out the rest of his years in this castle without someone who understands him as completely as Theon Greyjoy is suddenly crushing to him. It had been an idea once, staying here with Robb — learning to love whatever bride Father found for him. Raise children with true names. Serve in the household of the Warden of the North. It had not seemed like a bad life. But something is changed in him now. Jon can feel it. He’s not meant to be a knight. He’s not meant to stay in this castle. His duty to it is ending. He has a new duty now, a fresh vow he plans to keep.

“I promised him,” Jon says then, “I promised that I wouldn’t abandon him. I cannot.”

It’s cruel to say, he realizes, telling Robb that he is willing to leave him behind, alone. But there’s more to it than simply choosing a new patron to pledge himself to. Following Theon around instead of Robb. Not only the sense of adventure and responsibility he used to assign the Night’s Watch as a boy. Promise of an identity away from his father’s mistakes, away from Winterfell. More than simply Ned Stark’s bastard son. With Theon or without him, Jon could not last all his days in Winterfell. He always would have left.

Robb, the gentle soul he is, only stares back with dawning understanding, tears beginning to stain tracks down his cheeks.

“The life I could have here — the life I _will_ have here, if I stay,” Jon musters finally, “I — there’s only so much I can be. Only so much for me to have. The people here, the whole of the North: they know what I am. Have you never seen how they look at me? You must have. You were always too sorry to bring it up, but I know you must have. They look at me with disappointment before I even am granted a chance to speak. Men who don’t even know me. As if _I_ wronged them. Do you understand? You are my brother and think me important, but that is all most men judge of me. And that will never stop, I realize that now. No matter how noble a life I live, no matter how high I rise, how good I am to my lord and my wife, no deed is so good as to wash away the stain of being Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard son. I’m just a bastard. That's all I'll ever be.”

“Jon —”

“Please, Robb,” Jon interrupts, his voice croaking, “I can’t — I can’t stay here. I can’t be… I can’t be Father’s stain, I can’t be your unworthy rival. To follow you around until we’re old men. For the rest of my life. I can’t…” Tears are choking him, and he swallows hard, resolved. “You can try and stop me if you wish, but I’ve made up my mind.”

Jon expects Robb to argue further, but instead his brother only throws his arms around Jon’s neck and pulls him close. He buries his face in Jon’s dark hair, clinging to him tightly. 

“Oh, Jon,” Robb whispers into his hair, “I’m — I’m going to miss you.”

The weak attempt at stoicism Jon has held together since arriving at Robb’s door crumbles in an instant. His heart shatters, and he curls tightly into Robb, clinging to his shift as a sob leave him. 

His tears are still shaking him, as Jon lets himself be led to Robb’s featherbed, and the two of them sit side-by-side.

“You were always a brave one,” Robb murmurs, rubbing a hand over Jon’s back.

“Don’t call it brave,” attempts Jon in a weak joke, “call it foolhardy and stupid. But I have to go with him, Robb.”

“Well shall we go down to the dungeon and tell him the news?”

“We can’t tell Theon,” Jon says firmly, watching his hands instead of Robb’s face. “Promise me you won’t.”

Silence meets his request for so long that Jon finally glances up. Robb stares at him confused. “Why — why not? I don’t understand.”

“He’d never agree to it,” Jon tells him, wiping stray tears from his face. “Let me run off like this. He thinks… thinks he knows better than me. Pigheaded oaf. Can you imagine what he’d do if he knew I were planning to go with him? He would refuse, or tell the guardsmen.”

Robb it seems still doesn’t understand, staring curiously at Jon as fear starts to nestle into his bones. What if Theon refused him? Left him alone in Winterfell, leaving him behind?

“He can’t — he can’t know before we go. Once we’re leaving, it will be too late to argue.”

For some reason, it makes Robb laugh. Jon doesn’t, staring at his hands. He can hope for such things, but Theon will always have the option to leave him behind. Jon tries not to conjure the image of Theon riding away, too fast for Jon to catch as he flees through the postern gates.

“Alright. If you think so, I won’t say a word,” Robb promises, pulling him back to the present. “But will you be able to keep the truth from him, Jon?”

Shy, Jon stares at his hands. Despite the panic, the thrill is vibrating in him, churning his blood to boiling just under his skin. It is real now. He is going. Adventure is singing in the marrow of his bones. It tears him apart to leave his family, to abandon Robb and poor little Arya, but still there is a newness to his future now. Something he had never even thought to expect for himself. He’s buzzing with excitement.

“I —” Jon feels a smile tug strangely at the corner of his mouth. “I can try.”

With a sad smile, Robb pulls him close. For a long while, neither of them speak, curled into each other for a comfort neither has needed since they were children. 

It will be hard to go. But Jon knows, it would be harder to stay.

Meals are different for all of the children, since Theon’s imprisonment. Where Theon was always seated at Robb’s left and Jon at his right, the seat is left unclaimed now as the family dines in the Great Hall. Now, Robb’s left is anyone’s seat, and the younger Stark children squabble over sitting beside their eldest brother. 

At dinner that night, the night Jon makes his decision to leave, it is Sansa who wins favour enough to sit at her older brother’s side. She finds her place before Jon sits. He notices her, straight-backed and ankles crossed, and it spurns something in Jon when he realizes he has no idea any longer, how many more meals he will take beside his siblings. Sansa has always taken her meals with impeccable manners, every part the lady. As Jon watches her, he feels as if he’s only just now noticed such a habit. 

Feeling an uncommon and sudden sort of tenderness for Sansa, Jon takes his seat at her right instead. Robb looks up and regards him curiously, but of course, Sansa doesn’t notice. She never has taken much notice of him. Jon wonders if she’ll miss him, once he’s gone. If she’ll ever again think on him. Jon’s heart clenches. They have never been close, him and Sansa, but he admits he will miss her still, sweet and virtuous girl that she is. She tries hard now to act as her mother would with him, distant and wary, but as a babe playing knights and princesses, Jon was just another knight to sweep her away from a dragon-guarded castle.

The meal is uneventful. The younger children chatter and Robb laughs fondly at their tales from the day. Jon is not sure if he expects differently, but there’s an emptiness in him, as the serving girls clear away their supper dishes. Sansa has not regarded him. He’d perhaps wanted something to happen between them. A final attempt at understanding, of love.

She had always kept a reproachful distance from Theon, but still, she went to Father to beg for his release. Jon knows her heart, like that of their sister’s, is far more tender than she wants anyone to realize. Perhaps if Jon were the one unjustly thrown into the dungeons, she would allow herself to fret for his safety as well. 

Perhaps one day, long after Jon and Theon have fled Winterfell, she’ll spare him a thought while seated among the gods — old or new.

Dessert is brought out, and Jon smiles at the scullery maid who sets the lemon cake in front of him. Sansa lets out a soft squeal of glee, and his eyes find her, taking in the smile on her face.

Perhaps she will forget him shortly after they flee, Jon reminds himself, glancing over at the way she daintily portions her lemon cake. Still, the thought holds him. Even if she were to never think of him again, Jon will miss her. The way she and Arya bicker, or the way her delicate features light up as her septa shares moral lessons of courtly love and grand romances. The realization that he may never see her again weighs surprisingly on his heart. She is the eldest of Lord Stark’s daughters, nearing marriageable age. It’s possible that by the time Robb takes over Winterfell and allows their pardon, she will be wed to a fancy southern lord, never to return to the North.

He’s not sure how long he watches her, takes in the look of her as she eats so carefully. She doesn’t notice, even when Jon clears his throat as the thought occurs to him.

“Sansa…”

Her eyes move to him before her head does. It isn’t often that they address each other. She sets down her fork.

“Jon Snow,” she says with a nod. She always refers to Jon with his full name, always to remind him of his status. A habit of her mother.

With a hesitant smile, Jon passes his lemon cake to her. She’s almost finished with her own, and Jon knows they’re her favourite treat. Even in the long summer, it isn’t often Winterfell gets enough lemons to spare for such decadence as desserts.

“Would you like mine? I’m not very hungry.”

Sansa’s eyes brighten, and she smiles, wide and genuine. “Truly?”

Jon nods, his heart fluttering, and Sansa carefully pulls his plate to her. When she looks at Jon now, her smile lights up her face. He’s never seen her look at him so sweetly.

“Thank you, Jon Snow,” she says with another bow of her head.

His sister, too. Just as much as Arya. He must not forget that. He hopes that if she ever thinks on him again, it’s of this moment, where he made her smile wide as she gently sinks her fork into a fresh cake.

As Jon turns back to his cup of ale, he wonders how long he’ll be able to cherish this memory in its entirety, before the colours of it fade, and Sansa’s features start to blur. 

Blinking back the emotion, Jon looks up to Arya seated across from him, a sour little glare on her long face.

“I like lemon cakes, too,” Arya snaps, voice loud, “you could have shared with me!”

“Perhaps he doesn’t want to watch your horseface mash any more food than he already has to,” Sansa tells her smugly.

It’s ridiculous, how immediately the softness of the moment falls to childish ruin, and Jon laughs as Arya tries to reach over the table and stab at Sansa’s new lemon cake with her own fork. From the dais, Lady Catelyn stands to get a better look at her squabbling daughters. Still laughing, Jon reaches between them and takes hold of Arya’s tiny wrist.

“Well, you have more love for hunting frogs than for sweets and cakes, haven’t you, little sister?” Jon reminds her. “There will be plenty in the ponds, come twilight. I shall make it up to you that way.”

Arya smiles, placated, and sits back, and Jon releases of her arm. With Arya quieted, Sansa goes back to her lemon cake, smiling to herself. Out of the corner of his eye, Jon glances toward her, taking in the look of her. One day, he may forget what she looks like entirely. He wonders how soon it will be before she forgets the look of him.

He drinks deeply from his ale.

Later, once they are stalking about the pond for frogs, Arya interrogates her brother, “How come you’re being so nice to Sansa anyway?” She trudges among the reeds in bare feet, her shoes and stockings safely left up on the dry shore. The hem of Arya’s dress is hucked up around her knees and she wades through the waters like a heron. “She’s never kind to you.”

“Perhaps not as kind as you, little sister,” Jon says to avoid answering, “but she’s still my sister just the same.”

“It’s _not_ the same,” Arya argues, snatching a frog out of the pond and holding it high above her head as it drips water all over her dress. “ _I’m_ your little sister.”

“Aye,” Jon answers as he offers the basket for her prize, “and so is she.”

Arya pouts. “You have to like me best,” she says with conviction as she places the frog into the old wicker laundry basket. “Everyone likes Sansa best. You’re the only one who likes me more.”

“Oh come now,” says Jon gently, “you know that’s not true.”

Arya rolls her eyes. The frog tries to leap from the basket, and she is quick to intercept it. “Sansa’s a proper lady,” she points out. “Pretty and polite. Mother and Septa Mordane always say. Everybody in the castle calls me horseface when they think I can’t hear them.”

Jon frowns, gently placing his own caught frog in the basket. “Not _everyone._ ”

“Everyone aside from Mother and Father and you,” she specifies. When she pouts a little longer, realization seems to set, and she adds grumpily, “And Robb, I suppose. And Maester Luwin, too. And Bran and Rickon probably don’t. They’re too little.”

“So not everyone, then,” Jon repeats with a smile, giving her braid a gentle tug. “The opinion of the whole of the castle is not confined to Sansa and Jeyne Poole.”

Arya scowls again, as if that news upsets her.

Biting his lip, Jon adds, “I’ll always like you best, Arya. You must know that.”

Arya grins, toothy and wide, but as Jon says it, it occurs to him how lonely it may be for her, once he leaves. Sansa may spare a thought for him once he’s gone, but it will devastate Arya. He feels suddenly as if his heart is cracking in his chest. He can spend all these remaining evenings catching frogs with her, but it won’t be enough in the end. He’s betraying her now, abandoning her. Arya is his favourite of the Stark children, everyone knows, but he’ll have Theon, now. Jon is Arya’s favourite as well — and when he leaves, who will she have?

“What’s that look for?” Arya asks, her voice cutting into his thoughts. 

“Nothing,” he answers, giving his head a shake and forcing a smile, “just… remembering. Did I ever tell you of when you were born? You were the first and only of Lady Catelyn’s children to have hair like mine and Father’s, and when I begged and pleaded, your mother let me hold you.”

At first, her eyes narrow, mistrustful. Arya does not like being treated like a child. But the idea of Jon’s affection for her starting so early makes her smile. Jon smiles back. 

“That day, I nearly dropped you,” Jon says with a laugh, pressing his hand to Arya’s back to help steer her through the castle gates. “I’d never held an infant before, and I think I was a bit nervous about it.”

“You _dropped me!_ ” Arya says, aghast, and Jon laughs again.

“Only nearly. You wriggled, but I caught you just as easily, and you seemed to think it was fun.”

The smile returns to Arya’s face.

“Your lady mother was so worried after that,” Jon adds, ruffling her hair as he leads them into the hall. “She didn’t let anyone other than your nursemaid or Father hold you at all until you’d seen a full year.”

It’s not fully true — Lady Catelyn had only kept Jon from holding Arya that long — but the idea of being so special to her mother lights up Arya’s face. When they make it to Arya’s door, Jon bends to look her in the eye.

“After that no one got to hold you anyway, you were always running about. Since you could waddle, you were always escaping. More of an adventurer than even little Rickon is.”

“You used to catch me,” Arya remembers, grinning. “I remember riding on your back and shoulders, when I was small.”

It’s a sharp pang in Jon’s heart, and he chews his lip to keep the smile on his face. “You’re still small, little sister.”

“Not _that_ small,” Arya snaps as she sets down her prized basket of frogs just inside her door. “You’d never let me ride on your shoulders now.”

“Oh, no?” Jon grabs for her, grinning, and she lets out a high-pitched squeal of glee as he throws her over his shoulders.

Jon knows that she’s heavier than she had been the last time they did this, when Arya was only about six years, but he can’t convince himself of it now. She feels light as a feather as she giggles and bends down to kiss Jon’s temple.

“One would think you tell lies only to get your way, little sister,” Jon says, grinning.

Arya laughs. “I do not!” she giggles, nuzzling the side of Jon’s face before stretching out to try and touch the ceiling with her fingertips. Jon tilts his head to watch her reach, ignoring the stab in his heart as he remembers how numbered their days together are now.

And is it worth it, truly, to stay beside Theon? He knows there is a life awaiting him here, that he will never be more than the bastard of Winterfell no matter what he does. He knows all that, and yet as he shuffles Arya off his shoulders and sets her bare feet down, it doesn’t seem the worst fate for him. He would be here to watch Bran and Rickon grow into young men. He would be here to see his brother wed. He would be here for Arya.

He wants that. He wants it so much that it tears at his heart like claws. But he can no longer hold himself to such wants. He’s already made a promise, and he intends now to keep it, no matter how much it hurts him to leave.

Arya can tell something is upsetting him. He can see it on her precious little face, something confused crossing over her features. She opens her mouth to ask, or perhaps merely to tell Jon not to be so sullen, but Jon reaches up to give her braid a tug.

“You needn’t go to such lengths for my love, little sister. You must know you’ll always be my favourite.”

“That’s not true,” Arya says, though she’s beaming, “that’s Robb.”

Jon shakes his head. He’s close to tears, but swallows them down. “No, Arya,” he tells her seriously. “You’re the best out of the lot of them. And I love you the dearest. Never forget that.”

The smile on Arya’s face flickers. She knows. She must. But then she nods, mouth a thin line as she takes in Jon’s words like a promise of life or death. “I won’t,” she says, and then squints at Jon again. “What’s the matter with you, anyhow?”

Jon smirks. Arya has always been too clever to hide things from. “Nothing,” he says, “But I’ll hear no more despairing from you. Understand?”

Arya sticks out her tongue. Smiling, Jon leans down to kiss the crown of her head. He’ll take that as a yes. Hiding his heartbreak, Jon bids his sister goodnight and retires to his room.

Lying in bed that night is torture. Every moment staring out the window to the castle grounds feels like the last, as if he’ll go blind in the span of a breath, and lose all memory of his home. He cannot sit still on his featherbed no matter how long he tries to sleep. Finally, exhausted, he pulls himself from his furs and lights a candle on his desk, readying some ink and parchment, and sits down to write.

He writes the letter to his father first, planning to leave it in his own room to be found. Still raw and furious from their conversation in his solar, he takes several tries before the rage seeps out of words. He finds it harder to write the lies than he thought it would be. It is not only adventure and identity that has brought him purpose, but love. Love he wants to explain, though he knows he can’t. Knows it would never be enough. He instead writes around his feelings for Theon Greyjoy. Sites an unfairness thrust upon his father’s ward to inspire his actions. Unfairness his father supported, unfairness Jon himself has suffered from, in his own right.

He can’t share everything in what he writes, but he finds it hard to stop once he’s begun. _“You taught me that a man’s principles are all he truly has, and that if he does not honour and live by the words he speaks and the oaths he swears then he is without honour,”_ Jon writes at last, _“I still believe that to be true beyond any disagreement.”_

It doesn’t matter how his father will take such a statement. As a child he would have rather died than suffer his father’s disappointment, but now, he will not ever know how his father feels, reading these words. It’s freeing to realize. Theon had told him once he had so much honour that he put even Lord Stark’s to shame. He’s not sure of such things, but the memory makes his heart beat fast in his chest.

It takes far longer, writing a letter to Arya. It will be years still until she will truly understand his reasons for leaving, he knows, and so he allows himself too much candor. At first he worries that his father will perhaps read the words Jon has written her, but Arya is a stubborn child. If Jon is careful of where he leaves such a thing, she will be pressed to admit she’d received a letter at all, if Jon’s words were to beg it a secret of her.

And so he shares his fears and woes, insists again and again that she must hide this letter away with her treasures she keeps under the loose stone in the floor under her bed, to read years from now, when she is no longer angry, when perhaps she’ll understand. He had told her once that she would understand when she was older, but now that everything is changing amongst them, he’s not so sure. He pleads with her not to harbor resentment towards him. She perhaps will never know truly what Jon feels, or the bond he shares so completely with their father’s ward, but he does not let that stop him from admitting all he feels safe in confiding to her. That the pain he feels in leaving is an unbearable sacrifice, but more unbearable still would be to stay alone.

 _“You are still my most treasured companion in this castle,”_ Jon admits freely. _“Even given the circumstances, despite what I've done, I do pray to all the gods that you never forget that. Never doubt it for an instant.”_

By the time he’s satisfied in what he’s written, daylight creeps through his window. He stows the letters carefully underneath his featherbed and crawls amongst his furs to finally fall asleep.


	13. Jon

Another day passes, in a blur, and Jon grows more impatient than he ever was before. He is _leaving_. Leaving Winterfell. This place that has sheltered him since his earliest memories. The only home he has ever known. This place that had been at once a haven and a cage, disdaining him and treasuring him. He has never known anything else. Never known the freedom of choosing for himself what he ought to do, what sort of man he ought to be. For so long Jon had been desperate to find a way out of Winterfell. The Night’s Watch, that has always been his escape, he thought. The black brothers at the end of the world who would take anyone, that was more what than a lord’s bastard should hope for. 

But now he does have more, he has Theon, and together they are leaving Winterfell.

Theon did once promise that they would run away together.

It is stranger still to keep such a secret when Theon’s affection for him has turned so blatant. He is brazen, urgent, to fit a lifetime together in a handful of nights. Every touch lingers too long, his words ring too honest. Robb, for his own part, doesn’t seem to mind, but Jon feels intensely shy from the attention, and guilt hangs heavy between them with his secret.

Theon would not cling to him this way if he knew. He would not hold Jon back as Robb starts up the dungeon steps and press kisses into his throat.

“Will you forget me?” he asks Jon one night, peppering kisses over his jaw as he prepares to leave. Robb is waiting for him at the top of the stairs, but Jon lets his eyes slide closed. “I’m sure in time I won’t come to mind as often. But when the time comes that you marry and have sons, Snow, will you ever think on me?”

“I won’t marry or have sons,” Jon tells him honestly, pulling away to look him in the eye. “The years will not erase you from my memory, nor my heart, Theon. I’ve already told you that I am yours. I don't want anyone else.”

Theon scoffs. “You say that now,” he murmurs, “but you cannot know how long a lifetime is, Jon. It may seem a very long time to wait indeed, when I'm gone, and your bed is cold for many years. And you are young. You cannot make such a pledge now, while things are easy.”

Things are not easy now. “I am not so much younger than Father was, when he was wed. Or when my uncle swore his vows to the Night's Watch. Why shouldn't I pledge it now? It is true.”

“Well,” Theon dithers, kissing Jon again, “your father made his pledge, but that did not stop him from having another woman, now, did it?” He kisses Jon again, softly on his jaw, apparently truly sorry to have brought it up.

But he is right. Even Jon's lord father has broken that promise. How much can mere words mean, in the end? In the face of a willing body and crushing loneliness?

Still, Jon is resolute. “I will take no wife. No matter how long, I will not forget you.”

“No little Northern namesake for me, then?” Theon pesters further. 

He says it smiling, but Jon knows Theon better by now. Can see right through his jokes and affected levity. He must worry as Jon did before, that with so many years spent apart, they will stray from one another. Jon has never shown interest in another, and yet regardless Theon insists that Jon will find a new lover the moment Theon leaves his sight. 

Jon wishes he could tell him. They will not be parted. But Jon will not risk it. Not now when they are so close.

Even if Theon were to leave him behind, there is no one else for Jon. There never would be.

“Ask that of Robb, if you need such honours,” Jon tells him, trying to smile himself. “I could never betray you _or_ a wife in such a way.”

Theon chuckles, breathless and quiet, vibrating against Jon’s chest.

In the night, Jon and Robb conspire up in Jon’s bedchamber by candlelight, planning out how they’ll manage to sneak two fully-laden mounts past the guards. It will be Robb’s task. Robb can have a stable hand saddle two horses for him, wait with them beyond the gates; no young hostler would question what the heir of Winterfell would need with two horses in the dead of night. 

How to actually retrieve Theon from the cells unseen, that is another obstacle entirely.

“We’ll need far more time than a few loose dogs can give us,” Jon points out the first time Robb suggests it. “And much more space free of guardsmen.”

It’s another day before they think of anything viable, and the time weighs heavy on Jon. How many days do they have before a party of Northern lords and heirs arrive to secure the privilege of escorting the traitor’s son to the Wall? Any moment could be their last, Jon dragging Robb down to the dungeons to spend time with Theon, spending all night after conspiring. Jon doesn’t sleep well any longer. The nights seem somehow both too long and never long enough. Daybreak always creeps through his window as if with personal vengeance. They would have thought of something by now, Jon is sure, if only they could get more sleep. But all these long nights have yielded are dark circles under Robb’s eyes, and lonesome vigils full of desperate planning.

Theon doesn’t make much mention of it. But perhaps he’s just as exhausted and clueless as Jon and Robb are. He’d never admit such a thing, Jon knows.

Their scheming has run too late again. Robb has lingered in Jon’s chambers too long, and is staring out the window to the faint blue glowing dawn light hitting the trees along the edge of the wolfswood. 

Jon watches his face change, eyes growing wide.

Tilting his head, Jon ventures, “What is it?”

When Robb turns his head to face him, his expression has gone distant, cautious. “I may have a plan,” he says nervously. “It’s not — it’s not safe. There is risk. But it may work, yet.”

Desperate, Jon gives him a nod to continue. Surely it’s better than nothing.

“We need a larger distraction than the dogs,” Robb says plainly, as if it’s news to Jon.

Jon nods again. “Yes.”

“A — a distraction that will take far longer to solve, to afford us time.”

His voice is shaking. He looks awkwardly out the window again. Jon grows nervous, following his eyes for the clue that may sit just outside, but he sees nothing. “So what is your plan?”

“It doesn’t have to be… I just thought maybe if — we could perhaps set a fire. Something out in the wolfswood, but near enough to for them to call the whole guard. Just enough to alarm —”

“Fire?” Jon interrupts. “What if it spreads? Someone might get hurt. _We_ could get hurt.”

Frowning, Robb throws up his hands. “Well, we must do _something_ , Jon,” he snaps. “Perhaps it is dangerous. Perhaps someone could get hurt, but it will draw away the guardsmen. It will save Theon. Do you see a way we can do this without some fear of harm?”

“But that’s —”

“I’ll do it,” Robb insists over him. “I’ll set it myself. I’ll be careful. There has been no rain in nearly a week. Some of the underbrush will be dry, and if I ride out with a lantern I will be there and gone before any flames grow too big. Just a few trees in the wolfswood.. And you and Theon could ride off while everyone awake in the castle will scramble to put it all out.”

“Someone could —”

“ _Jon,_ ” Robb takes a deep breath. “I understand, I do. But I have no better plan.”

The tears come abruptly, strange, and Jon has to struggle to draw a clear breath. It’s not fair. None of this is. They shouldn’t have to do this. 

“I only wanted him to be safe,” Jon whispers, voice coming out raw and hoarse. He is determined not to weep. “None of this should — should have happened.”

“Jon…”

“By what right do I put everyone else in danger for this?” Jon interrupts. “I could get all three of us killed, or someone else, and then what would it all be for? This is all my fault. If I hadn’t — if I hadn’t been such a child begging for his attention, his affection, following him around like a hit dog, he would have never have known, and none of this would have —”

“Euron Greyjoy would have still murdered Theon’s father and taken the Iron Islands, Jon,” Robb cuts off quietly. “The only difference would be that Theon would still be doomed to the Wall. And you’d still be here afterwards, without him.”

Jon doesn’t look at him. 

Hesitantly, Robb adds, “You told me that you’ve loved him since you were a boy, Jon.”

“I have.”

“Then what difference would it make, had you kept your affections for him a secret to yourself, all these years? Would it have made it any easier to lose him now? Would it ease the hurt at all?”

Jon shakes his head. “I just…”

“Aye, you’re scared,” Robb says gently. “I understand. You'd have to be mad not to be. I won’t lie and say it isn’t dangerous, what we’re planning. It is. But you must believe it’s worth it, or you would still be arguing against it.”

With a soft laugh, Jon nods. “Aye, I suppose you’re right.”

Robb looks out the window again, runs a hand over his ashen face. “We’ll talk more on this tomorrow, Snow. Father will be looking for us soon. Do try and get some sleep.”

Jon nods, but he has no plans to do so. He wonders if Robb ever sleeps, after retiring to his own room.

It’s two nights later that they’re able to layout the plan in more depth, sitting cross-legged on Jon’s bed as they plan the quickest route off the castle grounds, the spot where flame will be most easily seen from atop the castle walls. The fire would have to be lit after midnight, after the guards would check in on Theon in the middle of the night, to give them the largest possible window of time.

“I’ll have one of the stable boys ready two horses beforehand. I’ll take one and ride out to the edge of the wolfswood. It won’t be hard,” Robb says, running the list of things that must be executed just right in his head. “Make sure all your things are packed on the saddles. You should get your things ready to leave in the next day or so. You will not have time to pack, the night we do this.”

Remembering, Jon freezes. He nods, biting his lip, and reaches under his mattress, pulling out the squashed roll of parchment from underneath his featherbed. The room is silent as he looks at it. He can feel Robb’s eyes on him, but knows he won’t ask. Robb hasn’t asked many questions at all, since this started. 

Holding his breath, Jon hands Robb the roll of parchment. Curious, Robb flips it over in his hands, inspecting the bit of twine knotted tight around it.

“What’s this?”

“A letter to Arya,” Jon admits in a breath. “I’m — I can’t leave it where someone may find it before her. They would keep it from her. It tells her… well, not everything. But Father can’t find it. He may know to search toward White Harbor for us, if he does. And she may never learn of it at all and think that I — that I left without a thought toward her. I know that once Arya has it she would never tell, but…” He takes another deep breath. “Until then, I have to trust it to you.”

Robb stares down at the roll. “What does it say?”

“It isn’t sealed,” Jon points out, shrugging.

Another moment of silence passes between them. Jon expects Robb to read it, but he doesn’t. Only holds it in his hands and stares at it, as if waiting for Jon to tell him more about it. Waiting for it to fall apart in his hands. Jon has no idea what he could be waiting for.

“I can’t imagine she’ll ever forgive you,” Robb finally admits with a watery laugh.

Jon laughs too, to keep tears at bay “I’m hoping — I’m hoping the letter may help quell her fury.”

Nodding, Robb pockets it with shaking hands. If he plans to read it at all, he won’t do so in front of Jon.

“If your letter doesn’t solve it, I promise to do my best. She is headstrong, our littlest sister, but I hadn’t meant to suggest that she would… She will grow to forgive, I know she will. She loves you too well to stay mad forever.”

Swallowing, Jon only gives a silent nod to show he heard.

Things have become tense between them in a way they never were before. Time they have left together dwindling ever closer to nothing. An end that takes not only Jon from Robb, but Theon, as well.

They were always going to go their own way some day. Such is the life of the highborn. Jon’s siblings that he treasured so much would be men and women grown by the time he next saw them — if he ever did again — scattered throughout the Seven Kingdoms, either married or sworn knights or serving in the southern court of the king. Perhaps with children of their own. 

Jon’s resolve crumbles, and he runs a hand through his dark curls in frustration. “You must take care of them, Stark, when I’m gone. All of them.”

“Of course I will.”

“Help them grow into it, the young ones. See that they don't stray, after what I’ve put them through. They will need you, after I’m gone.”

“I know, Jon. I swear I will.”

A smile, half-true, comes to Jon's face. ”You were always the steadiest of us. Always faced a challenge with bravery and resolve. Always fit your place so well. I was so jealous of you as a boy. How do you do it, Robb? How are you never scared?”

“Jon, I am terrified,” his brother confesses in a breathless rush. “I am terrified for you both. Theon's own kin wants him dead, and now so does the throne. When you leave, you will be alone, and all the North will be looking for you and there will be nothing more I can do; nothing to help you. Every night I wrestle with calling the whole thing off, with making you stay, but I know that I can't. That you would never forgive me and that it would mean the loss of Theon's liberty. And I cannot bear to ruin things between us, Jon. I love you too well. If I must lose you both either way, I would rather turn you loose on the world with that love preserved and intact, than have Theon banished to the Wall, and you hating me for the rest of our days. Don't say you would not. I know how you nurse a grudge. So I have decided, and I will honour my word to you both. But I am scared for you, Jon. I would be a fool not to be.”

Unable to contain himself, Jon throws his arms around his brother, pulls him close, grips him hard. Robb returns it, holding him tight. Hoping that if he does, his brother will never leave him.

“It was your love that saw me through this place,” professes Jon. “You were my first and greatest friend, Stark. Whatever else I had, I owe to you. Thank you for it.”

At his shoulder, Jon can feel his brother shudder, feel the harsh exhale of breath as Robb succumbs to his own tears.

“I owe you more than words can say for this, Robb. I will never forget it.”

“Good. Don’t forget us, wherever you go.” He takes a heavy breath before pulling away to look Jon in the eye. “Remember our house, Jon. It is yours, even if you don’t have the name. And we are your family.”

Swallowing the thick lump in his throat, Jon nods. “I know that. I do. Truly.”

Mirroring him, Robb shudders out a breath. “Remember what father always tells us. The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Keep close to Theon. He’s — he’s yours now. That’ll mean something, out there. Keep him safe. He’ll do the same for you. Father raised him just the same. Theon… he knows, just as well as us.”

He does, Jon thinks. His eyes fall to his lap as he steels himself. “I know that as well,” he finally answers.

“I perhaps don’t know as much as I thought I had, of the two of you, but I know that you both always insist on forgoing help, even when you need it most. No more of that. You can’t push each other away any longer, Jon. You will need each other more than ever, now.”

Jon nods, feeling suddenly as if Robb is years wiser, more than Jon will ever be. “You’re right.”

“I do not plan on the night of your escape being the last time I ever see either of you,” Robb avows gravely. “You understand? I need you to keep each other safe, so that you can both come home, in the end.”

“Robb…” Jon knows he cannot make that promise. He knows Robb can’t insist it of him. But still, he nods. “We’ll — we’ll come back to you. I swear it.”

“I know Winterfell is not where either of you chose to be,” Robb says so quickly it’s as if Jon hadn’t spoken. “But it was still a home to the both of you. In some years’ time, it — it will be again.”

The word _home_ burns heavy in Jon’s heart. “I know,” he says quietly.

Robb smiles weakly, dragging his hand over his eyes, and Jon pulls him into a hug once more.

“I know what you’re risking for us,” Jon comforts. “I know that Father will be furious, and that we’re leaving you to face that alone. You will… you will be a fine lord one day, Robb. The finest man the North has ever seen, I know it. You will do us all proud, me and Theon. Our siblings and your mother. And Father most of all.”

“Aye,” Robb says with a morose little laugh, “I suppose we’ll only know for sure if Father doesn’t leave his lands and titles to Bran for this. Perhaps after all our work, Father will be left with no choice but to send _me_ to the Wall.”

Jon’s laugh comes out more like a cough, harsh and broken. It’s not funny, but the idea is still unfathomable. “Bran would refuse them. He has no want to be the heir.”

Robb’s eyes fall away, his smile fading. He seems to be considering something, and Jon doesn’t want to interrupt. 

Silence stretches for a long time before Robb says finally, “I’m going to miss you.”

“And I, you.” 

Jon doesn’t like to think on what he’s leaving behind. It claws under his skin, the harsh voice of doubt whispering in the back of his mind every time he does. It’s hard to meet Robb’s eyes now, speaking of this. It seems difficult for Robb as well, who still stares at his hands.

“I will miss the both of you. So much. It will be so different, without the two of you by my side.”

“Aye, I don’t believe any of us are prepared to leave each other,” Jon admits. “We’d never planned for things to happen this way. I don’t believe even Father thought —” It’s hard, to speak of their father. A lump forms in Jon’s throat, and he swallows. “I don’t believe even Father thought anything such as this would happen. He had no preparations, for sending Theon away. Not even for imprisoning him.”

“No,” Robb answers, getting to his feet, “I don’t believe he had.” He looks sadly at Jon’s door before turning to kiss the crown of his head. “We should get some sleep, Snow. We’ll talk more on this later.”

Nodding, Jon crawls under his pelts, turning his face toward the wall as he hears Robb shut his door behind him.

The next morning, Robb sits close to Jon at breakfast, close enough that they touch as they’re eating. Jon had spent so long focused on his own future, he hadn’t spent much thought on Robb’s. He hopes his siblings will band together at his absence — that they will find solace in each other. It breaks his heart to think this may damage their closeness as a family, rather than bring them closer together.

When they discuss their plan with Theon, he’s more susceptible than Jon was to the idea, though he does express worry for everyone’s safety until Robb explains exactly how he plans to set the fire.

“Be ready,” Robb tells him firmly. “Pack what you’ll need now. Tonight. We will act in a night or two and will have no time to waste, once it’s done. We will not get the chance twice.”

The days that follow are solemn and short. Theon seems to sense something, but only assumes it’s the dawning of their plan, and clings tightly to Jon each night before he leaves to retire to his own bed. Jon nestles into Theon’s arms, struck silent every time, listening to Theon and Robb talk as he toys absently with the cold, calloused fingers on Theon’s hands holding Jon to his chest.

When faced with what to pack, Jon is at a loss. That evening, he takes an oilskin sack and fills it with his hardier riding clothes: doeskin breeches, grey, woolen tunics, a black, padded surcoat, a fleece-lined doublet, his best gloves, thick stockings, stirrups, a dagger, waterskins and a flint striker. Would he need for anything else? He can’t imagine. Jon tries to picture what it is he uses throughout the day, what he could do without, but his mind is a fog. Surely warm clothes will be enough? Jon has overnighted the in the woods before, camping on excursions and hunts, but always then with Father or at least a guard to accompany him. Had they known to bring things he had not imagined? Jon chastises himself for never noticing. 

He fastens the oilskin sack and drops it by the trunk at the foot of his bed. It will have to do. Jon can’t bare to think of it any longer.

Jon is laying abed with the candles nearly burnt down when there is a rapid pounding his door. Rushing to throw back his quilts, Jon gets to his feet. The bare soles of his feet chill against the floor.

When he opens the door, Robb pushes past him, red-faced and breathing hard, as if he had run here. He goes straight to Jon's window, peers out the leaded pane to the dark yard below. To Jon, he glances.

“Get dressed,” says Robb, “you're leaving. Right now.”

“What?”

Robb goes to Jon's wardrobe, starts pulling out his heavy travelling cloak. “You're leaving. Tonight.”

“Robb, what's going on? What's happening?”

“The guards have left their posts outside the dungeon gate. It's unmanned. Get your boots on.”

“Unguarded? What do you mean? Has something happened?”

“I could see from my window. The torches were lit but the guards were not there. So I went down to the yard to see. The dungeon gate is unguarded, the postern gate as well. When I went past the guardsmen's barracks, I could hear voices and women singing. Whoever was on duty tonight, they’ve shirked their work for dice and drinking. We have to go while they're still distracted.”

“Now?”

“Yes, Jon. Get your boots on.”

And despite everything, Jon hesitates. The shock halts him. It is so sudden. He looks around his room, to the letters on his desk, to the satchel of clothing he's packed. He did not expect this to be the last night he would spend in his room, this room that has been his since childhood. That his dinner would be the last dinner he would have with his family. That this morning would be last morning he would wake up in his bed.

“Jon!” his brother urges in a low voice. “It must be now. There will never be a better chance than this. Our plan was foolish and you know it. This way — this is the only way, now. Please get dressed.”

So he does. Jon clamours to pull on his clothes. He takes a plain grey tunic and doeskin trousers, woolen stockings for the road. A warm black leather doublet and boots for riding. As he does, Robb scrambles to pack other necessities. A dagger, a comb, unburnt candles. Struggling to fasten his laces, Jon tries to think what else they might need, but can’t. Sense has fled, and he can’t recall anything he and Robb had discussed.

Robb fastens the latch on the saddlebag, noticing the pack Jon has by his bedside.

“Are these your things?” he asks, glancing to Jon.

“They are.”

Robb hefts the pack to his shoulder. “Do you need anything else?” 

In silence, Jon cannot say. Is he leaving anything behind? Of course he is. He is leaving everything behind.

“No, no, nothing I can think of,” he replies.

Solemn, Robb nods. “Right,” he says firmly, “I’ve got food from the larder stowed in my room. I’ll — I’ll ready you some mounts.”

His brother is keeping something to himself, something deeper that sits just behind his teeth, desperate to be said. Jon waits, but Robb only thrusts out his fist. “Here.”

Curiously holding out his hand, Jon feels the solid brass key on a ring drop onto his palm. Robb explains, “They — the guardsmen aren’t supposed to lock him in, but Alyn sometimes… he forgets, and locks without thinking. I took them while I was downstairs, I — just to be safe.”

“Right,” Jon says softly, staring down at the key, suddenly much heavier than it had been a moment ago. The thought of going down to the dungeons alone is abruptly terrifying. He’d not imagined that Robb would not be there.

It occurs to him, all at once, that Robb will not be with him any longer.

“Jon,” Robb says softly, “go on, I’ll collect you in the dungeons if the way is clear. I have to go ready the horses now.”

Shuddering, Jon nods. “Yes. Yes, go. I’ll —” Jon clutches the key to his chest before throwing his free arm around Robb’s neck. “Be careful. Don’t be seen.” 

“I won’t,” Robb whispers into his hair. “You, either.”

The two of them slip out into the corridor, pausing outside the door of Jon’s bedchamber. Robb gives Jon’s wrist a tight squeeze as he starts toward the stables. For half a breath, Jon watches him go, before turning and hurrying down the hall in the other direction, hearing Robb’s footsteps fade behind him.

Down the steps, Jon makes his way through to the soft light of burned-down torches. If anyone hears him, sees him wandering around the halls at night, all is lost. Heart pounding, he keeps his footsteps light, feeling along the wall to keep steady as he shivers with panic.

Stepping outside onto the grounds, he’s hit with a frigid gust of wind he’s sure feels far colder than it is, brushing against his hot skin. 

The castle grounds look different at night. Jon can’t remember the last time he was out here after the sun had set. The moon casts an eerie shadow over the trees, groaning and creaking in the wind. The memory leaps out at him, of he and Theon sneaking off to the brothel. That must have been the last time. Everything was different, then. Jon had noticed nothing of the grounds, focused only on Theon, and the thundering heart in his own chest. Now, staring out at the wide expanse of hardened dirt and looming towers, Jon wonders how he hadn’t been terrified at the sight. An owl’s ominous howl cuts through the silence, and Jon’s body jerks into motion. He has to run. He has to move now. His hands are trembling so hard he can barely keep the key in his grip. He can’t shake the idea that Robb may have run into more trouble than Jon has yet — terrified that he’ll release Theon from the dungeons only to run headlong into a wayward guard.

But there are no guards, Jon tells himself. Robb had been right. Jon had never taken much notice of them unless speaking to them, but he sees no one outside, abandoned space outside the tower entrances where he knows an armored body should go. He hears voices, faint and quiet, far away. Panic rises in his throat, but he sees no one. There must be men uninvited to the dice games, but they are nowhere near the Great Keep. He hopes no one is stationed anywhere near the dungeon entrance. Robb had said there was no one. He’d promised.

Tears burn in the corners of his eyes as he races over the hard-packed ground, coming upon the archway that leads to the dungeons below. His heart is racing. Small clouds of his own breath heave on the night air. The slightest rustling behind him sends his mind reeling, throwing his feet forward. As he runs, the distance between his body and the dungeons only seems to increase.

They’ll be caught. They’ll all be caught. Theon will be killed, Jon sentenced to the Wall, Robb disinherited. What a stupid plan this is. A ridiculous, dangerous plan. How foolish Jon has been, to think this would be anything but ruinous. It’ll be a mercy if Robb hasn’t already been caught — if the guards haven’t already returned from whatever errand that kept them from the mouth of the dungeons. Surely Robb was mistaken in assuming they’d be distracted long enough for them to do this.

Jon has failed, he knows. Failed Theon, once again. What a foolish thing for a lord’s bastard to promise, that no harm would come to a damned hostage of war.

The key feels so heavy in his hands he’s sure that it’s slowing him down. How had he not reached the entrance to the dungeons yet, otherwise? Had he made a wrong turn in the dark, run past it in his panic? 

It’s too late. They’ll never make it out now. The guards will be back in only a moment to find Jon in tears, wandering the grounds. There’s nothing he can say, once he’s found. They’ll know. They’ll all know everything. In a rush, Jon remembers the words whispered against his ear the first time Theon had taken him in the godswood. _“No leading me to the execution block for last words and prayers to your gods and the king. He’ll kill me where I stand.”_

Jon had promised. He promised he would do anything. His legs burn as he runs. He has to try.


	14. Theon

Almost sleeping was a worse torture than not sleeping. And Theon hasn’t managed to sleep a full night since Jon and Robb had come to him with their harebrained plan to smuggle him into an escape. When he does sleep, it’s in fits and starts, half-dreaming nightmares of the three of them getting caught by Lord Stark just outside the gate, or foolishly sleeping through their desperate attempt to save him. 

When the two brothers first came to him with the idea, Theon had suggested they bring up most of his things, so that they could already be packed away on a mount when the time came. It was Jon who pointed out that it would be suspicious to have them bring everything out of the dungeons beforehand. 

_“I shouldn’t have brought down so many blankets,”_ Jon had said then. _“I’ve only made things harder for us.”_

_“Don’t fret over it,”_ Theon had told him with a laugh. _“I’d rather lose my head than sleep another night here without fur pelts.”_

Jon did not find it funny, looking up at him then as if the words had broken his heart. Theon always hates it, when Jon gets that look on his face.

And so Theon leaves his things in a pile in his cell, pulling them out only when he must. Though he wears the same garments near every day down here, he sorts through his finer clothes to pass the time. It’s impractical to want to bring all that he has with him, and so he picks through the clothes he wears less often, and leaves them in a separate corner of the cell. He’s rifled through his clothes what must be the hundredth time, changing his mind on each item as if any of it matters at all. If anything, any sort of lavishness to his clothes will draw the wrong sort of attention as he makes his way to White Harbor. If not betraying his identity then making him a mark for thieves. But he can’t convince himself to rid himself entirely of his silk tunics or lambskin gloves. 

He tells himself he would sell them once he’s far enough away. Trade them for a place to sleep and a meal. Still, he doubts he would part with any of them. Without his name and lordship, he’ll have nothing else to cling to, any longer.

It’s foolish, he knows. He tries to focus on other things. But when he isn’t carting his leathers and silks from one side of his cell to the other, he’s reading Robb’s tome of northern histories. Other reading has long since become dull. He enjoys the book of poems, but he has them all memorized by now. Something about the histories feels different every time he reads it, as if something will change if he only looks close enough.

He traces the lineage of each King of Winter down through the Stark family, curious to understand where his name came from, where else, perhaps, it had gone. There had been other Theon Greyjoys. Three. Thousands of years ago, centuries before the Andal invasion. But his father had never made mention of them. Theon had only found their names hidden away in old forgotten histories, holed up in his uncle Rodrik’s library to avoid his brothers on visits to Ten Towers. None of those men had been terribly important. When Theon was a boy, his father only sited the Stark king as his namesake, but never explained why.

Perhaps he’d always seen Theon as a traitor of his family, even as a child. Too weak to be an ironborn. Too soft. He always used to complain he’d been a weepy infant, cried so much more than even his sister had done. It embarrasses Theon, to remember that.

Theon shakes the thought from his head. Perhaps it was only that he was a king. Theon Stark had three sons, but none of them went on to take his name or carry it to their own children. If not for Theon himself, it seems, Theon Stark would’ve been the last of his name.

He’d mentioned it to Robb once, how strange it seemed that his father would name him after someone who slew so many ironborn, but it feels fitting now, for some reason, that his name betrays his own people. He wishes it didn’t.

Approaching footsteps racing down the stairs are so loud and so sudden that for an instant, Theon is sure it’s a trick of his exhausted mind — hearing threats that aren’t there to keep him panicked — but before he can even stand, Jon is there at the barred door in front of him, looking frantic and pale.

“Seven hells,” Jon hisses to himself, stretched onto his toes to reach the lock. “It — gods…”

Theon watches, frozen, as Jon wrestles with the key in his hands. Alyn had been the one to bring down his dinner. He forgets more often now, with such frequent visitors, but Theon is usually barred from visitors after it gets too late. He wants to help, somehow, but he can’t make himself stand. Jon seems hysterical, as if someone is just behind him, coming down with his father’s greatsword to finally exact justice on Theon’s throat.

“Now, Theon,” Jon hisses finally, sliding back the bolt of his cell door as he wrests it free of the heavy lock, letting it fall to the ground. “We have to go now.”

Jumping to his feet, Theon can’t help the fear that bubbles out of him. Now? He isn’t ready now. The book of Northern histories is gripped so tightly in his hands that Theon’s knuckles have gone white.

“Now?” Gods, his voice is weak.

Jon is already kneeling on the stone floor, stuffing Theon’s clothes into a saddlebag. He shouldn’t be the one doing that. Theon goes to help him before realizing he’d have to set the book down. They have to move now. It’s Robb’s book, Robb’s histories. He needs to give it back.

“But — where’s Robb?” The niggling panic is back again, clawing down his spine. Robb is causing the distraction. Theon will never see him again. “Is he — are you sure it’s safe?”

“Robb will be here soon,” Jon says from the floor, shoveling things into the bag with a single-minded focus. “We don’t know how long the guards will be distracted, we have to move now.”

Jon’s voice verges on breaking. He sounds more frightened than even Theon is. There isn’t much in Theon’s cell to bring along. Once Theon stoops down to help, they’ve packed it all away in moments. 

Jon’s hands are shaking as he stands. The bag in his arms slips from his grip and lands with a sad _thump_ onto the flagstone floor.

“Theon —”

Trembling, Theon pulls Jon close, holding him so tightly he can hear Jon’s breath hitch against his neck. He can’t speak. Speak and he’ll dissolve to tears. But he holds onto him, pretending for just a moment they have the time to say goodbye.

“Theon, we...” Jon is shivering as he pulls away, eyes shining with tears, “we must go.”

It can’t be the last look Theon sees on his face. He’ll never bear it, if his final memory is of Jon’s tears. Theon’s heart is breaking. It’s hard to breathe.

“Please don’t cry,” Theon rasps finally, throat tight. “I’ll —”

He wants to say it, that he will return for Jon. That if never returns, to assume only that he is dead. He wants to assure him that nothing else could ever keep Theon away from him for good, but it isn’t true. Jon may no longer want him, by the time it is safe for Theon to return. He does not want to curse Jon to a life of waiting. Jon himself had promised it once, foolish boy that he is, but Theon knows better. 

Jon is staring at him, waiting for him to speak, but the words are frozen in his throat. He cannot promise his return, nor how much he will miss Jon. Even if he wanted to, he knows nothing more than Jon does, on where his life will lead now. Instead, he leans forward and presses a kiss against Jon’s mouth, gentle and tender. He tastes tears on his tongue, but has no way of knowing if they belong to him or Jon. 

“Theon, please,” Jon pulls away, shaking so hard it reminds Theon of when he’d taken him in the godswood that first time, “we can’t — we can’t.”

Theon shakes his head. It doesn’t matter how much time they have. Theon is dead anyway. He’d rather die here than alone along the King’s Road. 

Jon looks away from him, wiping his eyes. “We haven’t got much — much time, come on.”

When more footsteps start down the stairs, both Jon and Theon freeze, poised toward the bars. Jon turns as the steps get louder, and stations himself between Theon and the open cell door, but it’s only Robb who emerges from the shadows, looking white and shaken as Jon.

“Are you both ready? We — we must go now.”

The sight of him makes Theon feel faint. He’d been so sure he’d never see him again, he has to stop himself from throwing his arms around Robb’s neck. “Robb, I —”

There’s no time. There will never be enough time for all he wants to say. Frantic, Theon picks the Northern histories off the floor. He moves to give it to Robb, who takes it gently only to set it down on Theon’s cot.

“Leave it here,” Robb says carefully. “I’ll come retrieve it later.”

Before Theon can argue, Robb has him by the elbow and drags him up the stairs, Jon trailing behind, arms wrapped around his bag of fur pelts and clothes.

Theon feels dizzy. He can’t manage to swallow, and his vision swims dangerously as dim torchlight shifts to moonlight bathing the whole yard. The air is cold and sharp, and for a moment, Theon stumbles. It’s been so long since he’s seen Winterfell now, he’s forgotten just how tall the round towers stand, how daunting the black stone looks against the night sky.

This place has been his home longer now than the Iron Islands, and the Islands will never be home again. Even trapped under the Great Keep, Winterfell was still where he slept each night and woke each morning. Thinking back now, he can barely remember the landscape of the Iron Islands, but this looming granite castle will stay with him until his dying day.

“Theon,” Jon is tugging him now, “come on, Theon. Now. We — we have to go.”

“Jon —” His voice is just as tear-strained as Jon’s, now. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. “Jon, I —”

“Theon, please,” Jon begs, tugging on his arm, “we — we could be caught.”

It’s better Theon doesn’t finish speaking, anyway. What good would any words do, now? He lets Jon pull him away, and his feet trip underneath him as he struggles to keep up. They come up to the gatehouses of the King’s Road gate, two tall, crenellated towers draped in long direwolf banners, a stone arch and iron grate portcullis spanning between them. The three of them pass under the shadow of the gate arch. As the he and Jon follow after Robb and creep through the whicket within the gate door, Theon realizes Jon is still holding his saddlebag of clothes. He feels little better than a woman — some dainty daughter of a greenlander lord who has handmaids to carry her clothes for her.

“Let me take that,” Theon says finally, digging his heels into hard dirt until Jon stops. He holds out this hand, and Jon takes a moment to realize he means the bag. “Give it to me.”

Handing it over without argument, Jon resumes tugging on Theon’s arm. “Come on, this way.”

The direction that Jon and Robb lead him, the three of them see no one else on the grounds. Theon has no idea what the hour must be that everyone else in the castle seems to be gone. Treacherous, a thought in the back of Theon’s mind tells him he wants to be caught. The Wall is worse than seven hells, he’s sure, but still he’s terrified to be going alone.

He won’t admit such things aloud, and instead follows Jon and Robb around a corner, into a brush of tall grass and trees. Theon can hear the snorts of a horse. He realizes suddenly, that what he’s doing now is stealing. Perhaps his father would be proud, but Theon can’t shake the guilt from his bones. His father will never know. He’s dead and gone, and Theon is no longer safe to live as an ironborn would.

When they make it to a clearing in the brush, Theon’s bag drops from his arm.

Unbothered, Jon lifts it from the dirt and with Robb’s help, lashes it to the horse. The second horse.

“Why are there — why are there two mounts?”

“I’m coming with you,” Jon answers, as if it were plain as day.

Theon scoffs. “You are absolutely _not —_ ”

“I’ve already written my goodbyes,” Jon snaps, talking over him. “That’s my things, lashed to the saddle. I’m going with you.”

Theon feels as if his heart is stopping. This can’t happen. He shakes his head. “Jon, no. Don’t be a fool. This is — this is your home.”

“It’s not,” Jon says, his voice tight. “Like you said, it’s — it’s only where I slept. Same as you.”

Theon’s lungs feel like stone in his chest. “Jon, don’t be _stupid._ ”

“We’ve already discussed it,” Robb interrupts softly. His voice is tight with tears. He doesn’t face either of them. “He’s… he’s leaving with you.”

“Your father will look for him,” Theon rounds on him, tears of his own stinging his eyes. It’s cruel of them, to tease him this way. It’s not fair. He already has the hardship of leaving. This trick only makes it worse. “He can’t — I’ll never get out of the North with your father’s men after him.”

“Father won’t come looking for me,” Jon says then. “I — I wrote to him, as well. Told him it’s fate of bastards, to go to the Wall. I’m old enough, now. I shouldn’t —”

“ _Shut up,_ ” Theon snaps, feeling helpless. “Gods, why are you doing this? You know your father will come after you. You _know_ —”

“I’m going to tell him,” Robb mutters then, and Theon is silenced. “I’m going — to tell him that I helped the two of you ride off north. That Jon had wanted… had spoken of going to join the Night’s Watch when we were young, and that we…” Robb rolls his arm across his eyes, drying his tears. When he finally meets Theon’s eyes, he’s never looked more heartbroken. “If Father asks why now, why this night, I — I’m going to admit it was to help — to help you escape.”

“Your father would never believe —”

“He would,” Robb says gently, “because I — I’ve not ever lied to him. And nor has Jon.”

“I _can’t,_ ” Theon pleads finally. 

Robb shakes his head. He glances at Jon then, only for a moment. “He — he can’t stay here, Theon. It would destroy him.”

Jon had told him as much once, curled against him in bed. _“Don’t leave me behind. I can’t stay there, not alone.”_ It had seemed a foolish request then, when Theon thought he would only trade one castle life for another. Now, the thought is impossible.

“Don’t say that,” Theon begs softly. “Don’t. He has you. He gets to — he gets to keep you.”

When Robb laughs, it’s sudden and too-loud. He’s scared, Theon realizes with a jolt. They can’t leave him alone, abandon him to Lord Stark’s fury. 

“You — you’re supposed to be a knight,” Theon snaps at Jon when Robb has no reply. “Robb always said he would make you one, when he becomes — you could wed, father children, live in a castle. Like you’re meant to.”

“And you’re meant to be a lord,” Jon answers. His voice is soft but firm, and Theon flinches. “It’s all changed, now.”

“It doesn’t have to,” Theon tells him, his voice thin. “At least not — not for you. You don’t have to do this. It’s foolishness. You’ll only —”

“Theon, please.” Robb’s voice surprises him, heavy with tears, saying words he’d expected from Jon’s mouth. “Take care of him.”

“But what —” Tears are sliding down Theon’s face now, slicing hot and foolish against his skin in the northern wind, “what about you, Stark? Who’s left to take care of you?”

Robb laughs again, the same wounded, hysterical laugh from before. For a moment, it looks as if he’s trying to come up with an answer, but he doesn’t. He steps forward and throws his arms over Theon’s shoulders, pulling him tight against his chest.

“You’ll write to me,” Robb orders sternly. “You might not be able to tell me where you are, but I — I’ll need to know you’re alright. That you’re safe.”

“Robb…” 

Theon’s tears are falling in Robb’s hair. There’s no way Robb doesn’t feel them, but he gives no sign that he notices.

“I’ve written letters to you both,” he says, pulling away to swing a leather satchel from over his shoulder. “Put them in with your things, added some things — things you’ll need while travelling. But I also… I found the two of you some coin. Enough for rooms and stables. Sell the horses once you reach White Harbour and it’ll be enough to buy passage on a ship. And also, a… a token…” He opens the pouch and pulls out a large iron cloak pin emblazoned with the direwolf sigil. It glints cold in the moonlight. “It’s… I don’t wear it, really. It’s dreadfully heavy, but I thought…” Robb flips it awkwardly in his hands, and the dim light of the stars catches the edges. “Perhaps if you reach a point where claiming to be Stark men may get you out of trouble, or… just to — just to remember us.”

Theon can’t bring himself to speak again. It’s agony, to watch Robb fighting back tears. It’s a weight in his chest realizing this may be the last time he sees Robb’s face. Wildly, he wonders if he would have ever been ready to leave the North.

Robb then turns to Jon, hugging him close for a moment, mouth in his ear as he whispers something to his brother. Theon watches them hold onto each other, and feels suddenly like a monster. How can he let Jon go with him now? How can they leave Robb alone like this? He can’t let this happen. He has to refuse. But then Robb folds around him once again, pressing the leather pouch into his hand, and Theon crumbles into him.

“I love you,” Robb says into his hair, “the both of you, with all my heart. My brothers, now and always. Please be safe. If it ever — if it ever happens that you can return, I’ll find a way to reach you. I’ll do — everything I can.”

Theon nods. Words fail him.

It feels somehow both an instant and an eternity before Robb pulls away from him. Robb wipes tears from his face before his expression turns grave. Theon balks at the look of Robb’s father etched in his mother’s soft southern features.

“You have to promise to protect my brother, Greyjoy.”

Theon nods. Words have been trapped behind his teeth for so long that they crack as the answer falls from his mouth, “With my life.”

“Do not say such things lightly.” 

“I do not.”

Robb smiles at that. Jon only stares at Theon bewildered.

“Alright, go,” Robb insists. “We can’t — we can’t sit out here forever, you have to get moving before the guards come this way.” He wipes more tears from his eyes, but then squares his shoulders with a deep breath. Steadying himself, becoming the lord he will be one day. “Ride through the night, and as long as you can manage after. When you reach the White Knife, follow the river south to White Harbour. Don’t — don’t write until you make it out of the North, of course, but — but do it as soon as you’re safe to, after that.”

Theon nods again, squeezing the soft pouch in his hand. He can feel the shape of the cloak pin sharp underneath the leather, its edges standing out irregular from the gold coins that make the pouch so heavy.

Jon is already climbing onto his horse. How long had this been part of his plan? Knowing Jon, it was part of it all along. He’d never even considered letting Theon go alone. Of course he wouldn’t. All that talk of promises he’d planned to keep. Never taking a damned wife. Theon should have known.

“Theon!”

Looking up with a jolt, Theon nearly drops the purse clutched in his hand. Robb is staring at him, holding his mount steady for him.

“You have to go now,” Robb tells him firmly. “We’ve already wasted too much time.”

Theon looks behind him. A part of him, still, wishes to be caught. If not for his own sake then for Jon’s. For Robb’s. Theon can’t let them do this. Sacrifice everything for him. He has nothing to his name to repay them with now that he’s a runaway. This is all for nothing now, and will be all for nothing again, when Robb pardons him as Lord of Winterfell.

“I can’t repay you,” Theon says aloud. “Robb, this is — this madness. What you’re doing —”

“What I’m doing is keeping my closest friend and brother alive,” Robb says pointedly, “You’ll repay me by surviving, Theon. I expect nothing short of that.”

Silent, Theon climbs onto his mount. He stares down at Robb for a moment, memorizing his face. After so many years, Theon does not recall the faces of Rodrik or Maron. He does not wish to. They had been cruel men, hard and hateful before they died. Much like his father had been. Theon used to think it is how men were, as a child. But Robb is different. He’d always been a compassionate boy; honest and strong. More his brother than Rodrick or Maron ever were. Theon wants to remember Robb’s face.

“You’ll make a fine lord one day, Stark,” Theon tells him from where he sits in his saddle, “Even without our help as confidants. You’ve always been destined to be — a good man.”

Robb’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Tell — tell your father I’m sorry,” Theon says then. “I hadn’t meant for… Just tell him I’m sorry.”

At that, Robb frowns. He doesn’t supply a response. “Go.”

Theon doesn’t want to. He’s terrified to leave the safety of Winterfell walls. He’s terrified to leave Robb alone. He’s terrified for Jon. Swallowing, Theon nods.

“Theon,” Jon’s voice is stern and heavy beside him. “We have to go now.”

Tears pricking the corners of his eyes, Theon looks back at him and nods. “Right,” he says before turning to look back at Robb. “We’re off, then.”

With a sad laugh, Robb drags his hand over his eyes. “ _Go,_ ” he says, stepping backward. “Go, I have to — I have to go back. Before anyone — before anyone notices.”

Theon turns his horse before Robb disappears from view. He can’t bear to watch him leave. 

From the torches just inside the gate, Theon can see Jon in front of him, holding the reins of his mount so tightly that the horse throws his head back with a snort. He’s staring past Theon for a moment, and then his chin drops, staring at the grass.

“Come on, Theon,” Jon says again, turning his horse. “We haven’t got long to get as far as we can.”

With a final glance back at the castle, cast in darkness, Theon stabs his heels into his mount, and the two of them start east at a sprint.


	15. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest chapter in the whole series, I think, but it's! ACTIONY! So hopefully that makes up for it.

They ride hard through the night, galloping east across the heather moorland, over the dirt track of the King's Road. It is easy enough on the wide open muskegs by moonlight. Once they have left the red torches of the Winterfell gatehouses and towers in the far distance, the blue light of the moon is bright enough for them to wayfind by. Casts the moor in an eerie blue-silver glow. Frequently, Jon casts his head back over his shoulder, watching the flickering torches of the castle diminish until all that can be seen of his home is a single glinting light far off in the dark, under the immense, starry, indigo sky. 

Somewhere next to him in the dark, Theon’s horse dashes over the heather, heaving and snorting, hooves thudding on the hard earth. Theon is indistinguishable in the dark, only a shadowy figure and a cloak snapping in the wind behind. Jon cannot tell if Theon glances back as well.

To his own mount, Jon clings, holding tight to the reins as they fly. He could not unclench his hands if he tried. Shock is surging through his body, through his sinew and veins. With every stride of their horses, it springs anew. It cannot be so, that they just simply escaped Winterfell. Slipped out the postern gate unnoticed and just rode away. Surely, any moment now, horns will sound, and the mounted guard will be just behind them, pursuing them before they even lose sight of the castle. 

The cold night air slices the back of his throat with each breath. Jon swallows and tastes blood. His lungs burn in his chest. But he hardly feels any of it, so staggering is the escape. His mind feels flung out of his body. Like he is watching himself and Theon from far away, apart entirely, a dispassionate observer of someone else’s flight.

East of the King’s Road, the moorlands become broken by sparse groves and woods. Small copses of maple and elm enclose them overhead. As they cross the treeline, the horses must slow to navigate between the slender trunks, but they still urge them on. At last, with the coverage of the trees, it’s as if they’re now truly shielded from pursuit. A foolish notion, but frantic with the rush, Jon feels it as real as anything.

They ride for the remainder of the night and well into the day until the horses must stop. 

In a small, dense grove of silver birch with yellow leaves, they come to a rest, delirious in the dazzling midafternoon light. The animals’ flanks steam and lather beneath their tack. Tossing their heads, they roar, protesting, frothing at the bit, and go no further. 

In truth, neither Jon nor Theon could have coaxed another step from them. They were half dead themselves, sleepless, sore, cold to the bone. 

Theon slips from his saddle and crumples to his knees with a groan. His horse lowers its head to inspect him, nosing at his cloak, then snorts loudly and shakes its head in displeasure.

With a wince, Jon drops from his own mount. His whole body rebels at the motion, the shock travelling up his burning legs, forcing a gasp from his mouth. He manages to keep his footing, only just, yellow leaves crunching beneath the sole of his boot. Jon’s never been in so much pain in his life. A full day and night of panic and hard riding has turned every inch of his body stiff and burning.

Grasping a young sapling, Theon hoists himself upright. His breath fogs in the air in front of him. He’s heaving like he’s just run the whole distance on foot, turning to face Jon with a wild look, brow furrowed, mouth twisting his beautiful face. Cheeks and brow windburnt and red, his hair swept and tangled. 

With a laboured stride, Theon shoves Jon hard in his chest. “What have you done, Jon?”

Jon cannot contain a moan of pain.

“You stupid fool!” continues Theon, red flush deepening. “You stupid, bastard fool! You have to go back!”

At last, Jon forces a word from his tongue. “What?”

“You have to go back, Jon! While there’s still time. Go back. Tell them I forced you. Tell them I threatened you with a blade. That I compelled Robb to aid my escape on threat of your life. Go back! Go back and make it right!”

“I will not,” Jon manages, his throat raw.

Gritting, Theon sneers and shoves him again.

“I will not!” Jon repeats.

“You will! You will listen to me! You don’t know what you’ve done. You and your brother have devised this imbecile scheme and now you’ll both see it ruin you if you don’t return while you still can!”

“No,” says Jon, steadier this time, “no, I will stay with you.”

Again, Theon shoves him. Jon catches his arms this time, and grips Theon to him. 

“Bastard,” Theon groans, “go home.”

Holding his eye, Jon says nothing. Only squeezes Theon’s wrists through his gloves.

“You must go back.”

“No,” repeats Jon, “no, I shall stay here with you. Where you go, I go, from now on.”

“You stupid, stubborn brat!” With Jon holding his wrists, Theon can only shake him, wobbling himself on unsteady feet as he does. “You haven’t a clue what you’ve done now. If you don’t go back now, your — your father…”

Jon can feel Theon’s hands trembling in his grip. Shy, he lowers his eyes. It doesn’t feel right, to gawk at Theon so hysterical.

“My father will do nothing to you, Theon,” Jon tells him, his voice even. “I swear that to you. Not so as long as I’m living.”

“Don’t be a fool, Jon.” Theon’s voice is sharp and jagged. “There’d be nothing you could do to stop your father’s greatsword from exacting justice on my throat. I’ve only proven him right, doing this after all these years. Running away like a coward and stealing his favourite son as a — a damned bride.”

Despite himself, Jon chuckles. It makes his lungs ache and his throat throb in pain, and comes out barely more than a hoarse breath. Theon twists in Jon’s grip, feeling mocked, but Jon only grins at him as he looks up. 

“Theon,” he says, feeling giddy with exhaustion and delirious with pain, “I’d plant myself between my father and your neck if I so had to. We’re not cowards for this. I think perhaps it’s the bravest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Of course you think that, you idiot,” Theon answers, his voice hoarse. “You’re too stupid to know the truth.”

There’s the reluctant hint of a smile on Theon’s face, and Jon lifts onto his toes to kiss him before it fades away.

“If you think I’m going back after everything that got us here,” Jon says evenly, “then I’m afraid I’m not the only one.”

Theon doesn’t have an answer to that. This time, when Jon leans forward and kisses him again, Theon responds. His kiss is slow, almost curious, disbelieving. Jon drops his wrists to wrest his hands in Theon’s shift for purchase, and Theon’s hand reaches up to brush Jon’s cheek just barely before he pulls away.

“Gods, you’re so fucking stubborn.”

Jon smiles. Theon doesn’t.

He doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak, but his hand lifts to cup Jon’s face again, as if confirming that he’s real. His stare is fixing, daunting, and Jon finds himself ashamedly desperate to look away from him.

“We should make camp,” offers Jon, with caution. “Let the horses rest, and get some sleep ourselves. Be fit to travel come dawn.”

“This isn’t far enough,” Theon finally says. “We should keep riding.”

“I know we should,” Jon nods, “but we can’t. The horses need to rest or they’ll go lame. We have to stop here. We rode all night and all day. There’s at least a day between us and any search party.”

Theon makes a face, but nods, relenting.

“Untack the horses, and then we’ll start building camp and light up a fire,” instructs Jon. “There are rope halters in the saddlebags. We’ll sleep on the saddle blankets once the brush is cleared.” 

Theon goes to his mount, taking the reins over its head. He releases the bags from the horse’s saddles, letting them drop heavy in the dirt before dredging up enough strength to pull the saddle from his horse. It seems like such a struggle that even in his desperation to rest, Jon feels guilt tug at his heart, and works at removing his own mount’s saddle.

It’s heavy, and his muscles burn. He hefts it just high enough to rest it on a low-hanging branch, his joints screaming with the effort.

The horses are relieved to have the bits out of their mouths. They gulp pond water out of a canvas pouch Jon holds for them. Not enough, but they should find the river by this day or the next, and they’ll have all the water they need.

With the horses tied, Theon and Jon sweep their campsite in silence, brushing away fallen leaves, twigs, anything bothersome to sleep on. Beneath the yellow fallen birch, the earth is dark and rich, and Jon lays their saddle blankets down in their hollow like a songbird lining her hatchling’s nest. There is a dead fallen log nearby, a blessing, as the wood is dry and not yet mushy from rot and will make good kindling and fire logs. Jon finds the small hatchet Robb had stowed away in their packs and hacks a few smaller branches off, no thicker than his own arm. Even with a day and a night’s head start, any smoke will lead a search party straight to them. A small campfire to warm themselves as dusk arrives will do, to hover near and sleep by.

Making camp takes far longer than Jon expects. It hadn’t sounded like much to do, but after finding a suitably sheltered spot, sweeping the ground clear of leaves, tending the horses, gathering firewood, retrieving a quick meal of hardtack from the saddlebags, more than a few hours have slipped by. 

Once a meagre fire is lit, Theon sinks down onto his saddle blanket beside Jon. He looks dead exhausted. His eyes sink shut and his head droops a few times before he curls up on his side.

Dusk comes so quickly, out in the country. Even with their fire, the dark is sudden and puts a halt to their fussing. It’s impossible to do anything in the dark, beyond the small ring of light cast by their little firepit. Jon had thought summer evenings long and lingering, but it is quickly becoming apparent how much must be accomplished by torchlight in Winterfell, how much having a staff of servants and cooks and laundresses eases the burden. He feels a little shamed for that.

Dark settles and the cold presses in, though the air does not chill overmuch. The fire, glowing orange in the dark, warms them enough, and the weather had been pleasant recently. Hardly any rain or snow in a fortnight. Jon sits on the saddle blankets and removes his boots, tugs off Theon’s when he doesn’t move to do the same. Theon only grunts as he does.

As the sun sets at last behind the trees and the moorlands, Jon settles next to Theon on their saddle blankets. They smell of horse, though Jon doesn’t mind. It’s a familiar sort of scent, and he imagines they’ll both come out of this smelling like vagabonds by the end. Beside him, Theon seems half alive, head propped on his rolled up cloak, appearing asleep but shuffling and spooking occasionally, cautious of every sound conjured out in the grove.

Jon unfolds a woolen blanket over them both. He leaves a margin of space between himself and Theon’s body, not wanting to disturb him from his thoughts. The shock must be momentous for him, and Jon knows how Theon gets, when something disturbs him. There will be time enough for talk and arguments come the morning. It is wiser, he decides, to let him sleep.

So they lie together in the dark, their horses nickering quietly where they’ve been tied, and Jon hunkers beneath their grey woolen blanket, drifting near the edge of sleep himself.

With a shuddering breath, Theon pulls him close, pressing Jon’s shivering body into his chest.

“Jon,” Theon whispers, voice hoarse as he buries his nose in the curve of Jon’s neck, “Jon…”

The breathlessness of Theon’s voice strangles Jon’s heart, and he twists carefully in Theon’s grip to face him. It’s hard to see in the dark, but Theon doesn’t give him the chance anyway, leaning forward and taking Jon’s mouth in his own.

It’s the barest hint of a kiss, soft — softer than Jon can even remember him ever being. When he shifts against the saddle blanket underneath them, Jon thinks for a moment that Theon will reach to undress him. Jon would let him, if that was his intent. He is spent and fordone to the point of near delirium, but Jon would let him. Always would. Instead, Theon’s hand only lifts to cup Jon’s face, slips his gloved hand around the nape of his neck, leads his head back to deepen the kiss.

Despite himself, Jon’s head spins. He’s so tired. Even the exhilaration of their success isn’t enough to pull him from this weariness. At first, he wonders if perhaps Theon doesn’t feel the same, but the hands on Jon’s face never move. His kiss never intensifies beyond that. 

When Theon finally breaks away, he’s panting. “I’m sorry, Jon. I’m sorry.”

That startles him, and Jon pulls back to meet Theon’s eyes. “Sorry? Sorry for what?"

Theon only offers a shake of his head, and Jon shuffles closer, running his hands over Theon’s arms to chase the cold off of him.

In the dark, in the open country, the silence is immense. Theon doesn’t speak again for so long that Jon assumes he must have finally dozed off. Jon doesn’t mind. Whatever he’s sorry for isn’t of any real importance. Jon needs no apologies. He never thought he’d get this chance again, and now they have their whole lives for it.

Jon lets himself sink into his exhaustion, body falling slack in Theon’s arms when he feels a kiss press into his hair.

“I’m glad to have you,” Theon whispers finally. “I hadn’t meant — I’m so glad to have you.”

Smiling, Jon reaches out, fumbling for Theon’s hand and wrapping his fingers tight around his chilly glove. Theon will never have to be sorry for that.

They drift off clinging to one another, hidden in a grove of yellow birch, beneath their grey wool bedding. Their first night as fugitives. Something in Jon’s heart can only rejoice, though he knows it is foolish to be so happy. They are neither safe, nor free, nor blameless, but regardless, Jon presses back against Theon, pulls his arm tighter around him, and Jon cannot recall feeling so ecstatic in years. 

Surely, hardship will erode the naivety from him; in the days to come, after the glow of success and newness fades, he will recall his father with humiliation, his siblings with despair, how he absconded with his lover like some flighty, thoughtless prince of old, squandering duty and obedience for love and folly. The sons of King Aegon V had all broken their bretrohals, plunged the country into dispute and brief rebellion for their own young wants and wandering hearts. But even in the North, they still sung merry songs of Prince Duncan Targaryen and his peasant wife, Jenny of Oldstones. A love so grand, that the prince had cast aside his right to the Iron Throne so that he might have her. What Jon has done pales in the face of such a gesture. No wars will be fought because he fled his home. No turmoil will be sewn in his wake. No great houses spurned. Only gossip among the washerwomen and guardsmen of Winterfell. How Lord Eddard once had a bastard son who stole away with the young usurped prince of the Iron Islands, to live as a whore as doubtless his mother was, and they were not heard from again.

They will go on into obscurity, and no songs will be written about their love, but that had been Jon’s lot since his birth. He is not sorry for it. Rather, he has never been more glad. Tonight, under the stars, they are free, and Theon is his.


	16. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone I read a bad take on GoT so I got mad and had to post the chapter early to feel better lmao

Jon knows he is cold before he even wakes. 

In that strange, bodily way, he can feel it even in his sleep. Not quite dreaming, not quite awake, Jon shivers, heart pounding, curled into a tight little ball. He’s not sure when it is he actually slips from sleep into wakefulness, when the mist of dreaming peels back and leaves only the cold, frigid daybreak to greet him, but slowly the earth beneath him resolves, hardens against his shoulder, and the sounds of the morning grove sharpen. The cold presses in from all sides, from the air, from the earth, his own limbs. It pierces him, right through him, like a blade. His clothes, his own heat, they do nothing to fend it off. Desperate, Jon burrows beneath the wool blanket, pushes back against the source of warmth behind him.

Theon, he realizes. Out in the wilderness with Theon, sleeping on the hard, damp ground, wrapped up together to fend off the frigid night because they fled. They rode from Winterfell in the dead of night. And they are not going back.

Jon’s teeth chatter in his head. The exposed skin of his face and neck is stinging with cold, nearly numb. He cups his gloved hands over his mouth and nose, tries to warm his face with his breath. The joints in his arms creak in protest as he does. Gods, he is stiff. Never been this stiff in his life. He is sore from the soles of his feet to the top of his head, from his outermost skin to the core of his heart. The muscles of his hips and thighs throb from riding. His back crackles like an old man's from sleeping on the ground. It hurts, hurts to just lay there, trying to breathe in the cold. 

Behind him, Theon is still asleep on his side, knees tucked up under his chin, stiller than a stone. 

For a moment, Jon just stays there, bundled against the dim, frigid morning. If he lays there, perhaps the day will slip by them unnoticed. They can fall back asleep, and the horses will be minded, and their fire will rekindle, and they’ll never have to get out from under the heavy comfort of this blanket. They’ll never have to face carrying on as runaways. 

Dawn is early out in the open, especially in the long summer. Dew glistens on the fallen leaves that litter the ground. Woodland birds, all at once it seems, begin their chorus just before the first rays break the horizon, while the sky is still an eerie lilac blue. Their campfire had burned out in the night, leaving nothing but cold ashes. The horses are where they left them, tied by lead ropes around the trunk of a tree, nibbling on grass. Their saddles and bridles are slung over a low branch, the leather sheened with dew in the predawn air.

They must start breaking camp soon. Ready the horses and load up their gear. Jon knows it will take longer than they expect. Knows they don’t have time to waste.

Gathering his will, Jon throws back the wool blanket. The cold rushes like water over him and his whole body shivers. His muscles burn in protest. His neck and shoulders throb and some unfamiliar pain pusles behind his eyes. Jon rubs at his eyelids. His gloves are cold, but the pressure helps the ache in his head.

Beside him, Theon stirs, but does not rise. 

Jon nudges him with his elbow. “Theon. Theon, wake up.”

He does, inhaling and jolting a little. He blinks rapidly before realization settles over him. He shuts his eyes again, brow furrowed, stricken.

“We have to get moving,” Jon implores, halfway an apology. “I need the saddle blankets to tack up the horses.”

Theon says nothing, only pulls the woolen blanket over himself like a cloak and rolls upright, freeing the saddle blankets for Jon.

He stays seated on the ground next to their firepit while Jon tends to their mounts. The sky brightens as he goes about it, melding from blue to milky white, to gold as the first rays of dawn break through the trees. Jon slings the saddles over the horses’ backs, cinching the girths up tight. Nothing had spooked the horses in the night, a heartening sign. There would seem to be nothing on their trail just yet. 

Covering their firepit with leaves and dirt, Jon tries to warm himself, tries to loosen and stretch his limbs, tries to prepare for another day of riding. These first days are the most vital, putting as much ground between themselves and Winterfell as can be done before the search is expanded. Today they must gain the river, the White Knife, and then begin south along its banks. Travel will be easier there. There are paths and villages along the riverbanks, endless freshwater and fish and waterfowl to hunt. Jon has never made the full trip on horseback, but from what he’s gathered it’ll be a fortnight on the road until they reach White Harbour. From there they will find passage on a ship bound east, across the Narrow Sea. And from there, they may go wherever they please, together.

The horses are ready, their breath steaming in great clouds in the chill morning air. It catches the golden rays of the sun, glowing like fire. They snort and stamp, impatient to get moving. Jon pulls up the hood of his cloak. 

He finds Theon still crouching on the ground, wrapped tightly in the woolen blanket they’d slept under, unmoved and silent.

“Theon,” urges Jon, kneeling beside him, “please, we have to start riding.”

Not looking at him, Theon squeezes his eyes shut.

Sighing, feeling the dull, stiff ache of it in his chest, Jon presses his brow to Theon’s temple, breathes together with him for a beat, two.

“We must go,” he murmurs, squeezing Theon’s arm through the homespun blanket, “please, Theon. Get on your horse.”

Theon does. After a few further moments of quiet, he hauls himself onto his feet, groaning and stumbling slightly. They mount without a word and ride out of the birch grove as the sun breaks over the treeline ahead of them. East, they are going, and though the sky is cloudy the sun still rises bright before them like a beacon, a torch, washing the woodland before them in golden morning light. 

They do not ride as hard as they had the previous night, urging their mounts at only a brisk walk. The horses need the day to regain their stamina. As the moorland gives way to more thickly treed woods, they ride single file, following deer trails between the tree trunks. The dapple light streams through the broad leaves of summer, green and lush and cool under the shade. Moss and ivy grow along the ground, climbing and tumbling over the lower roots and trunks of the trees. Stalks of foxglove and mullein stand in the sunny glens as high as their horses’ withers, columns of flowers like little pink bells. They ride toward the sun, the only waypoint they have in the woods. The day warms as it climbs high overhead, peaking and then starting its descent behind them. Their shadows grow ahead of them, pointing the way forward.

Together, they ride in silence. Theon does not offer to speak, and Jon does not press him.

They gain the river by the midafternoon. It can be heard before it can be seen, a gurgling rush of water combing through the trees, growing louder as they ride. Jon’s heart leaps at the sight. The river is swift here, shallow, with riffles and shoals of smooth, grey stones. Up on the banks, they dismount. Guide their horses down by the reins, let them drink their fill from the waters of the White Knife. Refill their own skins with fresh water as well.

After drinking his fill, Theon throws down his waterskin, tugs off his gloves and removes his cloak, leaving them in a bundle on the dry pebbly banks. Jon watches as he wades into the green waters up to his calves and comes to a stop. Not so deep that the water can spill over the tops of his boots. He stands quietly, not moving, as the current rushes past his legs, before scooping some river water in his hands and splashing it over his face, scrubbing it through his hair. Stretching, he rolls his head on his shoulders, tipping his face up to the streak of blue sky above the canopy of the woods. Water ladens and drips from his hair, pronouncing the curl, darkening his clothes in patches. 

Jon watches, reluctant to disturb him. Theon has hardly said a word all day. 

Standing in the water for a few moments more, faced tipped up to the sun, Theon continues his silence. Though just as Jon begins to worry that his boots will get sodden, Theon turns and wades back to shore, raking excess water from his hair. Without a word, he redresses, wiping his face off with the hem of his cloak before refastening it. With mild apprehension, Jon watches, debating internally. What might he say? Should he offer some sort of comfort?

Pulling back on his black leather riding gloves, Theon returns to Jon’s side, taking the reins of his mount back. Jon passes them over.

Sighing, Theon asks, “So it’s south on to White Harbour, then, is it?”

“Yes,” Jon replies, hedging.

Adjusting the stirrups on his saddle, Theon nods, mostly to himself, chews his lip, as if considering. “Alright then.”

He mounts up, swinging his long leg up and over the saddle. Jon follows suit. Horses watered and refreshed, they set off down the riverbanks without further word.

Later, as twilight falls, they come upon a brace of ducks quacking among calm shallows of the reeds. Theon shoots two from horseback before the remainder are able to take wing in a flurry of honks and wingbeats.

They make camp there for the night, nestled on the bank of a wide, deep pool of still water at the river’s edge, Theon building a fire and tending the horses while Jon sets about plucking and cleaning their kill.

With the duck spitted and roasting over the fire, Theon gets to his feet and wanders back to the saddlebag, rooting around in it until he fishes out the long roll of parchment tied closed with twine. He inspects the roll for a moment before tossing it to Jon. Catching it, Jon notices the graceful penmanship of his brother’s hand, his own name drawn neatly along the edge. 

Glancing back up, he watches as Theon has returned to searching the saddlebag. Jon tugs the string free, making sure before Theon frets that the two letters aren’t both wrapped together. The single roll springs free, long for Robb’s neat handwriting. Afraid to read it before Theon has found his own, Jon rolls it tight and turns his eyes back to Theon. 

Silent, Theon frowns as he finally pulls his hand back with another roll of parchment. His eyes are sharp on the scroll in his hand, but his mouth stays a tight line. 

Jon wishes he would smile. 

By the fire, with their game roasting up, the two of them read their letters in silence. Robb had made an effort to say everything to their faces the night they made their escape, but he details his worries the words he’s written to Jon. He urges strictly to be careful, to stay safe. He speaks fondly of past memories, of his love for Jon. Of the future he hopes for the three of them when — and never if — the two of them return. It aches to read the words. The letters swim slightly, as Jon reads on.

When he’s finished, Jon glances to Theon. Theon is stiller than a stone, crouched in the dirt with his eyes pinned to the scroll in his hands. The grip he holds the letter in is too tight, Jon can tell even from this distance. He fears the letter may tear in Theon’s hands as his fingers shake. His face looks pale even in the orange glow of the fire, and his eyes are shining.

“Theon?”

Embarrassed to have been seen, the letter falls to one hand, held indelicately between Theon’s knees as the other hand reaches up to drag over his face. He says nothing at all, face turned away from Jon, and Jon rolls his letter tight and sets it safely inside one of his drying boots.

“Theon…” He gets to his feet and starts toward Theon’s side, but Theon jolts, edging away from Jon and reaching for the duck set over the fire.

“Cooked enough, I think.”

His voice is brittle, and he doesn’t look back at Jon, tearing a steaming leg from the bird and handing it to him pointedly. Shyly, Jon takes it before sitting back down. Theon pulls the other leg free for himself and sits down heavily, his letter tucked away on his saddle blanket.

For a long while, they eat in silence. Jon has no desire to break it.

Neither of them is a good cook, as it turns out, but they make do. Waterfowl is a plump meat, greasy, and parts of the game are chewy and unseasoned, but it is the first fresh meat they have had since leaving, and Jon has never appreciated a meal more. As the last rays of the sun sink away, the two of them are picking the remains of the carcass between them. 

With fresh meat in his belly, Theon finally finds it in him to speak again, his mouth still full of roasted duck.

“Was it a lie all along?”

Jon looks up quizzically. Theon snorts at that, and swallows.

“Robb wrote a letter to you as well. Already prepared and all. Had you planned to come along the whole time?”

“Oh,” Jon answers stupidly. He looks at the picked over bone in his hands and shrugs. “No, I — I hadn’t.”

Theon seems to take that as response enough. He takes another bite in silence. Jon starts to believe that’s the end of it when Theon speaks again.

“All that talk of pardons and such.” He’s not looking at Jon as he talks, face tilted toward the sky, gazing at the stars. “Did you not think I’d come back if I got away?”

“It’s not that,” Jon whispers. It’s not fully a lie, but Theon finally meets his eyes with a disbelieving look. “It _wasn’t_. All that came later. Of course I feared you’d not return, and of course I did not want for us to be seperated, but that isn’t why I decided to leave with you.”

Theon raises his eyebrows, smirking. “No?”

“No,” Jon answers firmly. “It was more than that. There was nothing more for me, in Winterfell, I realize that now. Once you were taken away, it seemed as plain as day. If I stayed there, without you, I would have despaired. Nothing would have changed. I would have stayed Jon Snow, weathering scorn and mistrust from my own countrymen for the rest of my life. Not because of my own deeds, but because of who my mother was. A woman I don’t even know. And when Father imprisoned you, the son of a great house, because of treachery that was not even your own... I realized then that I could do nothing to win enough praise. My lineage was decided for me, and to them, it is what matters most. I will be a bastard forever, and I couldn’t withstand it anymore, not without you at my side. And I had made you a promise, Theon. I promised that I would not abandon you. I was willing to wait for you, I was. For days I thought honestly thought I would. But my promise to you made more sense to keep.”

Silence, for a moment. Theon sucks marrow from a bone. Jon feels foolish, bearing his heart by the campfire, while Theon’s focus isn’t even on him.

“You Starks and your fucking honour,” Theon says finally.

Jon laughs.

It’s the last he says to Jon that night, but as they curl close together to fall asleep, Theon buries his face in Jon’s neck and places a kiss just below his jaw.

In the morning, they bathe together in the river, something that is much less arousing than Jon had hoped. The waters of the White Knife are frigid, even in the summer, fed from high mountain glaciers far to the north, the same arctic blue and green waters that pool in the Long Lake before travelling downriver, turning green with silt and clay as they go. 

The shock of cold is punishing, and Jon’s body starts to shiver almost immediately, teeth chattering in his head. Knee deep in the water next to him, Theon curses, but washes anyway. 

Two days of hard travel they wash off themselves. They scrub their hair, wipe their faces, douse water over each other’s backs, all before rushing quickly back ashore to their modest campfire, rekindled when they woke that morning. To keep warm as they dry, they tuck hot river stones they'd warmed in the fire under the saddle blankets, huddle tight under their cloaks. 

They have no mirror, so they shave one another’s faces. Jon closes his eyes as Theon takes their razor to his cheek, savouring the touch, Theon’s fingers holding his jaw, tilting his head, the whisper of the blade against his skin. The sensation stirs something low and warm in Jon's belly, though he can't understand why.

Theon’s mood had heartened considerably since they had gained the river. Jon cheers to see it. 

They eat sparingly, crusts of stale bread slathered in honey. Jon has had no appetite anyway, since the night of their escape. Thrill and apprehension had taken some time to wane from his body, and Jon imagines that in a day or so he would wake with a ravenous hunger. 

Problems for another day.

Their morning chores accomplished, they break camp and mount up, heading south along the banks. 

The day is warm, and their chill from their morning bath is soon mercifully forgotten. Around them, the forest and the river sprawl forth. The land by the river is a gentler slope, flat and even. Riding is easier.

Talk is still hesitant between them, but Theon at least finds it in him to speak, as they ride at careful pace down the river. He hasn’t got much to say, Jon notices, more just to fill a silence he’s only just grown uncomfortable with.

“I thought I’d have more warning of when the two of you would carry out your ridiculous plan,” Theon says at one point. “More at least than you clamoring into my cell and throwing my things into a saddle bag.”

It’s the first time it occurs to Jon that he’d never known what had really happened. Laughing, he says, “Aye, I suppose we would have, if it had gone according to plan.”

Theon doesn’t stop his mount, but it does slow, at his sudden stiffness. “What?”

“We never set the fire,” Jon says, “we had no need to, after all. The guards abandoned their posts for some reason. Games of dice and women, I think, Robb said.”

It takes Theon by surprise, and he stays silent. Jon shakes his head. 

“It worked out for us. Much safer, and now —”

“Your father will be furious with those guards.”

Jon frowns. “Yes, I suppose he will. But it will be harder to blame Robb, at least, if it’s fault of lazy guardsmen.”

They’re quiet for a moment, after that.

“I used to be the one dragging them away from their posts to play dice games.” 

In an attempt to pull Theon away from his own anguish, Jon only snorts. “Well it seems they learned bad habits from you, then. Perhaps Father will assume it’s all your fault.”

It works, Theon laughs, though it comes off a little hoarse. “Aye, at least I deserve blame for that.” 

The ride again falls into silence.

It’s two days since they reached the river when evening finds them in front of a small grove of weirwood trees. Scarlet red foliage draws them from nearly a mile away, unmistakable through the long green growth of summer. They are slender and upright, the tallest perhaps only thirty feet high. Not yet gnarled or sprawling as the ancient one in the Winterfell godswood. A half dozen in total, Jon inspects each one, but none bear a carved face. They are too new, to carry the marks of the First Men. 

Watching him, Theon ties the horses, begins untacking them. Jon drops to his knees to sweep the twigs and brush from the widest clearing between two trees. The mulch underneath is plush and comfortable. The past few days have lacked the chill that would make it hard and frosted. As Theon brings the saddle blankets over to drape on the ground, Jon feels an odd sense of peace. The land is warm and soft, and the night seems gentle, here.

The papery white of the weirwood bark reflects bright off the starlight, and Jon is surprised by the wave of homesickness, being curled under the red canopy of the weirwood trees with Theon. When he thinks back on the afternoon he’d lost his virtue, it often seems to have only happened days ago. 

Lying here, now, in the wilderness, among a godswood of their own making, Jon feels twenty years older.

In the morning, Jon wakes alone, the woolen blanket bundled tight around him. Fear grips him so suddenly that he bolts upright half senseless, but Theon is only just beside him, seated at the base of the weirwood closest to their nest of blankets. His head is bowed low, and Jon can see his fingers trembling as he traces them along the thin cracks in the ghostly white bark.

“Theon?”

Startled, Theon turns to face him, looking somewhat embarrassed when he meets Jon’s eyes. 

“Aye, don’t fret. It’s still early, but I was going to wake you if you slept much longer,” he says, getting to his feet.

Jon only watches him dumbly, perplexed. “What were you doing?”

“What do you mean?” Theon looks back at the tree. 

“Why are you sitting over there?” Jon asks, incredulous. It dawns on him, suddenly, and he bites his lip to keep from smiling. “Were you — were you praying?”

“And what good would that do?” Theon asks without answering. Jon has learned that with Theon, avoiding a question entirely is as obvious as any straight answer. “They aren’t my gods.”

“They are now, I’d say,” Jon says, slinging back the blanket to stand and go to him before Theon can busy himself with something to end the conversation. “After all these years here in the North. And now especially, if you’re mine and I’m yours, as you say. I keep the old gods. They’ll hear you for me.”

Theon smirks, but has nothing further to say on the matter. He drops his head to kiss Jon’s cheek before pulling away to stretch his arms over his head. 

“Ready the horses, would you? I’ll see if I can prepare us something for breakfast.”

The day's ride is uneventful, and they stop just before sundown in a small glade by the river. The grass is long and soft and a low, shaggy oak shelters them from the wind.

By now, they can set up camp without a word. They divide the tasks between them: Jon tends the horses, untacking them and leading them to the riverbank to drink, while Theon gathers firewood, hunts for game if there is any to be had. The whole arrangement is done much faster than their first half-mad night, and they have saved time by being able to ride longer into the evening for it.

When the fire is burning and the horses are tended, Theon reaches for Jon without a word, pulls him to the ground where he’s arranged their bedding. It is urgent, graceless, when Theon takes him in his mouth, clothing rucked and half off. From flat on his back, Jon sees only the stars overhead, the twirling red embers sent up from the fire, orange and glowing, leaving trails against the indigo vault of the sky. Theon has no mind for patience, it seems, shoving Jon’s clothes aside, gripping his hips, working his tongue, his jaw, between Jon’s legs without mercy. He won’t last, not with Theon so expertly working to wring it out of him. Jon’s stomach clenches. His boots lift off the ground as his thighs leaver and strain. His breath clouds the night air above him.

After it’s over, after Theon has claimed a shuddering release from him, there is only silence. Jon does not know if Theon came as well, but he does not ask for anything, only flops down beside Jon, lays his head on his shoulder, throws their grey wool blanket overtop them both. 

Heart still hammering, Jon wraps his arm around Theon’s back, tousles his hair absently. He wants to ask — it’s only fair — if Theon wants anything from him, but the orgasm had wrung him out and he is rapidly losing the battle against sleep. 

Stroking Theon’s hair, Jon looks up at the stars, dense and snowy in the dark field of the night sky. So much brighter away from the standing fires and torches and lanterns of Winterfell. He shifts, growing cozy beneath their bedding. Grass rustles against their blankets. Wind combs through the treetops. The whole world murmurs around them. The snapping fire, the rustling trees, the river, the open country, the sky above. All of it, open to them, waiting, beckoning to go where they may. Jon understands now, why his ancestors had looked at the wide, untamed world and seen gods.

In silence, they hold on to one another, neither speaking. There is no need for it. They are together, on their own, and they can nearly speak without talking, now. Jon’s heart brims. Watching the stars, with Theon at his side. They can go anywhere they please. And Jon would fall asleep beneath the stars with Theon Greyjoy for the rest of his life, would be glad to. Nothing in the world, he thinks, would bring him more joy.


	17. Jon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kind words re: my last note. :3 They're very much appreciated.

Theon does not sleep well, out in the wilderness. He tosses and turns, grumbles about laying on roots and twigs, the cold, the damp. And when he does sleep, the nightmares are more frequent. Or perhaps it is only that Jon is present for each one, now. It always leaves a heavy lump in Jon’s throat, but he is usually able to quiet Theon easily enough. Soft kisses at his temple or gentle whispers of his name often help to lull Theon without Jon ever even having to wake him.

Some nights are harder, though, Jon shaking Theon awake in the dark woodland and reminding him softly of where they are. Those nights Jon hates. Not for his own sake, but for the embarrassed silence Theon suffers before finally giving in to his exhaustion and fears, pulling Jon close to him as they fall back asleep.

Full and low, the moon is nearly bright as morning, the night that Theon kicks Jon awake with a particularly harrowing nightmare, thrashing against the blankets. Automatically Jon reaches for him, half-awake himself, body moving without thought by now. But when his fingers brush against skin, Theon yelps like a kicked dog, shying away from the touch.

It pulls Jon fully from sleep, to feel him wince away. The air hits cold along his side. They sleep so close now, bundled together under blankets. Mere inches between them feel like ice on Jon’s bare skin. He hoists himself onto his elbows and shakes the last of fog from his head. For a moment he takes in their surroundings, sure that they are alone, the horses undisturbed, before looking back at Theon.

“Theon,” Jon hisses, grabbing firm hold of Theon’s shoulder. “Theon wake up, it’s alright.”

Theon sits up with a shout, wheeling back from Jon. “Don’t _touch_ me!”

Startled, Jon sits back on his heels. In the silver moonlight he can watch realization seep into Theon’s features, softening his expression. 

“Jon.” Theon swallows, eyes darting over his shoulder before landing on Jon’s face again. “I — I was…”

Never does Theon reveal what it is he dreams of, what sends him screaming awake, not since the first time Jon had witnessed one, more than a year ago. Jon never asks, anymore.

“It’s alright,” broaches Jon after Theon has fallen silent long enough. “It’s fine. It's just me. Do you need anything?”

Theon scoffs. “A damned bed.”

Helpless, Jon only repeats, “You’re alright, Theon.”

Another scoff. “Aye. I know as much, don’t I?” Theon holds his head in his hands.

Usually, at this stage, Theon has reached for him by now. He’s shy of it, but his nightmares tend to make him desire comfort. Closeness. To hold or to be held. Never before has he snapped at Jon not to touch him, even half-asleep and frantic. Jon’s not sure what that means. If he should wait for Theon to reach for him. If he should just go back to sleep and leave him be. 

Jon stares at the horse blanket spread out underneath him. He feels abruptly useless.

A loud sigh brings Jon’s attention back.

“I’m alright, Jon. It’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

Jon nods, and rolls to turn away, but Theon wraps his fingers around Jon’s arm and tugs him close.

“Come here, you tender thing. I hadn’t — I hadn’t meant it.”

Jon nods, his cheek against Theon's clothes. “I know you didn't.”

He yearns to comfort Theon, but has no words for it. Even if he did, he doesn't know what sort of darkness keeps Theon from sleep. He can feel Theon shaking through his clothes as he holds Jon against his side, and bundles close to him.

“I can stay up to stand watch, if you’d like,” Jon offers sleepily. 

“Just get some rest, Jon, it’s alright.” 

Jon shakes his head, but Theon leads him back down against the blankets. 

“Go back to sleep.”

Defiant, Jon reaches for Theon’s hand, rummaging over their blanket of combed grey wool. He sits upright holding his head, and Jon tries to coax him back down onto the blankets with a drowsy tug on the arm. Theon lets his hand drop with Jon’s grip, but doesn’t otherwise move.

“It’s fine, Jon,” he says without looking at him, “just give me a moment.”

Jon is asleep once more before Theon lays back down.

In the cold and misty morning, Theon is up before him, dismantling their camp. Jon watches him a moment, glancing at the sun to guess the time before he calls to him.

“Theon?”

Bent over their saddles, Theon looks over his shoulder, eyes sunken and tired. He had not gotten any sleep Jon knows in an instant, but he says nothing of it, and is the first to look away.

“We should get moving,” says Theon flatly, “it’ll do no good to get complacent now.”

Nodding, Jon gets to his feet. He hadn’t thought they were getting complacent, but he won’t question it. The morning light is enough to see by, fog spanning from Jon’s mouth as he breathes. Theon turns back to breaking camp in silence, not sparing Jon another glance until they’ve tacked their horses.

The morning’s ride feels much like their first day had, Theon silent, staring out at the river as they travel. 

Around midday they stop to eat and let the horses rest and drink, Theon starting a fire to warm by as he eats soaked hardtack and spreads their map over his knee. Jon watches in silence. They haven’t done much speaking, these past few days. And Jon does not enjoy being the one to break the silence. It feels like pestering. Instead he picks at his crust of bread, desperate to ask questions.

Theon squints, studies their map. It’s a crude rendering, just quill ink on scraped parchment, suitable for travel, not for planning troop movements on a large tabletop. Smudged under his thumb, two wavy lines of ink join into one before leading south to the coast: the forks of the White Knife. The river that will lead them to White Harbour.

Jon had grown on this river, or at least a section of it, a day’s ride east of Winterfell, over the King’s Road. Trout, pike, and sturgeon, and even spawning salmon in the long summers, all were in abundance in the riverbed to be fished out on long camping excursions. Nights when young Jory, before he was captain of the household guard, would take Jon and Robb into the woods on an overnight ride and make a campsite, instruct them in how to build a fire, sweep their tracks, wield lave nets over the tumbling river. Showed them how to scale, gut, clean and fillet their landed fish, how to drape fluorescent orange strips of salmon flesh over a cedar plank frame and smoke them on a low flame. Then Jon and Robb would bring their bounties home, rushing to show Father their largest catches, and he would smile and congratulate their skill and that night for dinner the family would feast on their prized fish, all the while Robb and Jon eagerly recounting the tale of their adventure.

Now there is no fishing. They have no nets nor lines, not to mention no time. For sustenance they have stale crusts of bread, hardtack, a few links of smoked meat, and one jar of jam and honey each. Plus anything they forage or catch. Meals have been bleak. Unseasoned roast meats and hardtack soaked in river water on most nights, honey on crusts in the morning. Theon had spotted a large thicket of blueberry bushes a few days back, a massive colony that went on for over a mile, and they had lingered longer than they should have picking and storing berries and letting their horses graze. They are paying for their dallying.

“We should have reached the fork by now,” Theon concludes, frowning at the map, then up at their surroundings. The river gurgles through the trees a few yards down the hill. They had stopped to water the horses and get their bearings.

“Might just be downstream a ways,” offers Jon, fastening the bridle of his mount.

“No.” Theon shakes his head. “No, we should have reached it yesterday at latest. We lost sight of the King’s Road four days ago. Followed the river south. If we’d been making time like I thought we had, we should have reached the fork in the river.”

Jon pulls on his leather gloves. Downstream, the river swerves and bends out of sight, lost to the foliage and the slopes of the riverbanks. Nearer the water the trees and undergrowth are denser, harder to ride through. They had been keeping to the higher ground where the woods were sparser, keeping the river within earshot. It’s not possible that they missed the fork.

“Will we make it before dark?” asks Jon.

“Damn it, I don’t _know._ I don’t know where we are.”

“Well we haven’t lost the river." Coming around their firepit, Jon closes next to Theon, looking over his shoulder at their dirty map. "We’ll have to come up to the fork eventually, won’t we?”

“Gods, I don’t know! We were meant to restock our provisions before this. We won’t make it another three nights out in the wild without resupplying out of somewhere. A village or an inn. Gods, this fucking wasteland. Nothing but leagues and leagues of frozen wilderness and bogs and great stinking shepherds in pelts sharing one toothless woman between them all.”

Theon stomps off to retrieve his saddle from where it’s slung over a branch and sets it over his horse’s back. Jon stands abandoned by their firepit.

“Theon, we’ll make it in due time. We can hunt if we have to.” Jon gestures to Theon’s bow and quiver, bound in a spare saddle blanket.

“If we spare so much time to hunt then the men Lord Stark has sent after us will pick up our trail.”

“So we’ll go without a meal for a night.”

Theon cinches the girth on his saddle. “I’m not aiming to starve out here. If we were just going to die after all I could have faced my death with a proper last meal, seated by a warm hearth.”

“We’re not going to starve.”

“We may. Won’t that give those fucking Stark men a hearty laugh. Two stupid runaways dead in the woods.”

Jon frowns. It’s strange to hear of Stark men as if they are enemies. Jon supposes they are now, perhaps, but it sends a cold sort of chill in Jon’s belly to hear Theon regard them in such a way.

“Theon, enough. We’ll find a place to stay; we might barter at a farmstead. There are plenty along the river.”

“Don’t you northerners set dogs on beggars?”

Incensed at his outburst, Jon grabs him by the shoulder and forces him around. “Enough! What is the matter with you? We are not beggars, nor tramps. If we pay what’s fair we’ll find shelter and lodgings. Northern men are honest. They wouldn’t turn us away.”

“More like some crooked old man will take our coin then turn us in to the nearest Stark patrol for a handsome reward. If he doesn’t slit our throats for our purse beforehand.”

“It won’t be like that.”

“Jon, don’t be a fool. The smallfolk will sniff you out as a pampered castle brat the moment they lay eyes on you. We’ll be made if we stop anywhere.”

That isn’t fair. “And not you? With your silver pins and satchel full of coin? Not as soft and slow as I am?”

“I am ironborn; I’ll not be denied by swineherds in thatch huts.”

“You seem frightened enough by them,” Jon scoffs. “I thought the ironborn took what they wanted.” 

Theon rounds on Jon so fast he almost flinches. 

“You know nothing of the men of the Iron Islands, Snow,” he seethes, voice low and dark. “The likes of you would not survive there. Children younger than your brothers are sent to kill and raid, learn to climb a mast and steer through squalls. We put lesser men into the mines to work to death as thralls.”

“Do not mock me as a child,” Jon spits back; he will not to be cowed by Theon’s tantrum. “Your islands don’t frighten me, not if they’re crawling with naught but drunken sailors and ingrates and kinslayers. If you find the North to not be up to your exacting standards then you should have fled back home and faced your uncle like a man when word came that he had forfeited your life.”

“Shut your bastard mouth, Snow!”

“Likes to whisper sweet promises while abed then flees like a coward at the first brush of a real trial,” Jon hisses, hating himself as he speaks. “I would have gone with you! I gave you my word that I would. I would have fought for the Iron Islands with you.”

“Jon, I was never going to take you to the Iron Islands.” 

It stuns him, like the fool that he is. Theon only seems encouraged by his silence.

“You think it would have been tolerated? That it would have been allowed?” Theon questions with disdain. “Returning home after ten years amongst greenlanders with my captor’s bastard son in tow as a consort? As a _lover?_ Lover to the son of my brothers’ murderer. Can you imagine what would have been done to me? My father would have sooner thrown me into the sea then suffer the humiliation of having bred a catamite. And you, they would have worked you as a thrall if they didn’t give you to the priests to drown. I could never have brought you there.”

Aghast, Jon fails to master his voice. What a fool he had been. He was just like those dim girls back in Winterfell, swept up in a romance of his own invention, exploited and misused for the pleasure of this fawning young lord with a dashing smile. Jon curses the gods and himself.

“Liar,” is all he can stand to say.

“Aye, I’ve no reason to tell you sweet lies any longer,” Theon bites back, eyes as sharp as his tongue. “I’ve already had you as I want.”

Jon’s blood runs cold. He opens his mouth, desperate to snarl back at him, but his voice only catches hard against a sudden lump in his throat.

“You miserable welp,” he growls at length, stepping toward Theon. “How could you! After what I’ve done. I — I left behind everything for you! _For you._ "

"No one asked for you to come along, Snow."

"My home, my — my family —”

“ _What_ family?”

Jon reels back a hand and hits Theon across the face.

Theon’s head whips to the side, his uncombed hair flying into his face. The crack of it rings loud over the gurgling river. The palm of Jon’s hand stings in his glove after a moment. Theon’s chest rises and falls under his fur cloak, his breath steaming in the air in front of his face. Together they stand, stock still, stunned, only the chattering of the river’s current and the stamping of the horses disturbing the quiet. 

Theon drops the reins of his mount and shoves past Jon, hard enough that he nearly loses his balance.

“Stay here with the damned horses. They’re all we have of value to our names anymore. There was a farmstead on the river not far back. If I cut through the brush I should make it there and back before the sun sets. A fucking swineherd’s thatch hut is better than wandering around so far from the King’s Road after dark.”

Jon doesn’t say anything. Tears are crawling up his throat like bile. If he opens his mouth, Theon will only know he’s won in his cruelty. His eyes sting, and he drops his chin. 

“And get our things packed away. Leaving anything behind could cost our lives.” 

Theon doesn’t wait for a response before storming away. Jon keeps his eyes down, listening to the loud rustling of underbrush being shoved aside as Theon carves a faster path. Jon waits until he can’t hear him any longer before releasing his breath, letting out a shuddering sob as he kneels down to collect their things together.

It’s hard to focus, his hands shaking with swallowed sobs as he gathers everything back into their satchels. He dismantles their firepit, covering the ash with frosty mud as he tosses the charred logs out toward the river where they may not be found. Black, crumbling wood falls apart in his hands, and Jon takes a hiccupping breath, furious with himself. How could he be so stupid? Why is he letting Theon hurt him this way?

Lashing the bags to their horses’ saddles, it occurs to Jon that perhaps he is alone now; that Theon does not intend to come back. Theon may intend to find a fresh mount at the farmstead and carry on alone. Jon isn’t sure he’d be able to find his way without him. Not now that they’re lost. The thought chokes him and tears cloud his vision. It takes him several tries to secure their things before he drops down on a tree stump, defeated.

The sunset turns the sky to fire overhead, up between the tree limbs, and Jon keeps his head down. The sludge under his feet is muddy and brown, churned filthy from the path. He tries to follow the way Theon must’ve gone, but the underbrush has fallen back into place by now. There’s barely sign of him outside of the footprints he’d left behind.

He has to come back. Doesn’t he?

Suddenly, Jon remembers sitting in his room, waiting for Theon to show at his door at nightfall, the night Theon took him to Ros. He’d been so sure Theon would never show, but he had. Jon swallows. He has to come back. Feeling restless, Jon gets to his feet and wanders over to the brush Theon cut through, trying to see if he can catch sight of the farmstead Theon went back for, or maybe some sign that Theon is returning.

The dusk is starting to spread across the woods, making it difficult to see too far now that Jon put out their fire. There’s an oil lantern Theon nicked from a farmhouse some way back, but Jon worries about using it. Theon may be angry with him, if he comes back to see it burned down to nothing.

“Two horses and only one fat little brat, is it?”

Jon spins around. A thin, sparse man in filthy rags stands barely a pace in front of him. How had Jon not heard him coming? The man grins at him, revealing blackened teeth behind his thin white lips.

“I’m not alone,” Jon says as bravely as he can manage.

The man seems unconvinced. He steps forward, grin unwavering.

Blind with panic, Jon reaches for his sword, but before he can manage to brandish it he feels the cold beveled edge of a blade slither around his throat. The black, sunken eyes of the man in front of him crinkle in excitement, and the heavy hilt of his sword slips from Jon’s grip, slipping back into its sheath with a whisper of leather.

“Sure look all alone, little one,” says a new voice behind him. Jon can feel the sour stink of his breath just beside him, burning over his ear. “Not safe, that. Out in the woods so far from the road. Certainly not for a sweet little thing like you. Saw your campfire smoke a mile away. Led us right to you.”

He’s not alone. He’s not. He hadn’t been alone, just moments ago, wasn’t it? Tears prickle in Jon’s eyes. Was that the last time he would see Theon’s face? Red and furious, eyes narrowed and venom on his tongue? 

Jon tries to find command of his voice, “I— I’m not —”

“May be alone, but that’s castle-forged steel, that is,” the other one says, “and two fine, hearty palfreys, well-fed and groomed. This one thinks himself a little lord.” A wide, dirty hand wraps around the hilt of Jon’s sword, pulls it free to examine the blade’s craftsmanship. 

Jon flinches, his eyes squeezing shut, daring not to move.

“Where’d you get yourself castle-forged steel, boy?” one of them asks.

Gritting, Jon opens his eyes. He won’t die a coward. He won’t die begging. He’s a son of Lord Eddard Stark. He will die standing as his father would. 

Before him, he meets the thief’s eyes with contempt. The man is old, but not as old as he looks. Lank hair, yellowed teeth. Weathered by a life of hard labour and malnourishment, his face is lined and drawn, but there is a degree of resilience and vigor in his form. His clothing looks warm enough, but tattered and filthy, unwashed in some time. He would have to be relentless, to have survived to this age. 

Jon doesn’t speak, unable to open his mouth, but the ugly man in front of him grabs his arm and shakes him. The frigid blade at his throat scratches his skin just short of splitting it.

“I said, where’d you get this sword, boy? Steal it off some guardsman? Kill him, did you? You tougher than you look, mayhaps?” 

"Never done any killin' in his life, this one," the second voice chides.

"On the run from the king's justice, then? You steal these horses? Some lord gonna pay me a handsome coin if I return you to him?”

For an instant, Jon thinks of his father come to collect him with ransom, looking at him with shame. The idea is a sick, cold weight in Jon’s chest.

“Maybe we’ll take you along, s’well as your horses,” says the one still tucked behind Jon, holding the knife, his voice thick with a sickening laughter. “None too bright nor watchful, you are, but surely we can use you for some—”

The voice cuts short with a stifled yelp. A muffled _snick_ splits the air, and the cold blade falls away from Jon’s throat. Heart frozen in his chest, Jon jumps and turns his head to see the raggled thief crumple to his feet, the fletchings of an arrow shaft lodged grotesquely in his burst eye.

The other thief drops Jon’s sword to the leaves, his head swivelling. “What in seven hells —”

A second arrow pierces the man’s throat with a horrible thud. Jon feels the power fade from the punishing grip on his arm as the man collapses, blood drenching quickly down the front of his clothes. The forest is silent again. The horses, a little startled by the commotion, lower their heads to nibble once again at leaves. Birds twitter sleepily in the boughs above, unconcerned with the murder below. Jon’s vision tunnels, his lungs turning to stone in his chest. He can’t breathe. He can’t see. The dead men seem still to be watching him from the forest floor, glaring.

A loud clatter of something landing at his feet. Not a body, this time. Something wooden, light. Jon doesn’t turn his gaze from the bodies at his feet, even as he hears his name cutting through the dead’s silence. 

“Jon. Jon, gods, look at me. Are you alright? _Jon._ ”

The world is ringing around him. The vanishing light of the sinking sun is somehow too bright. His heartbeat is so loud, he’s sure the birds singing overhead can hear how terrified he is. “I — didn’t see… They snuck up on me — with a knife, and I —”

Shaking hands are on his face, but Jon can’t look away from the bodies lying before him, pooling blood steaming in the cold air, dyeing the last of the dirty snow red. He never sees their bodies for long, when Father takes the heads of criminals. He’s never seen the way the eyes roll over grey as life leaves them. Heard the way their bodies groan as air escapes them.

“Look at me, Jon. Are you hurt?” 

It’s Theon, he realizes, but his voice sounds very far away.

Jon shakes his head. “No, no I… They’re dead.”

“They are.” Theon’s voice is serious, flat. When Jon finally looks at him, his eyes are nearly black. He’s never looked so pale. “As will be anyone else who tries what they had. You’re alright, Jon. Breathe.”

“Theon —”

“Shh, come on. We ought not linger. That farmhouse down the river will put us up for the night, let’s get inside.”

When Jon tries to move, the earth surges underneath him, and Theon’s hands have to keep him upright.

“Alright. I’ve got you, Snow. It’s alright. Come — come here.” Jon feels himself being led backward until the backs of his legs hit a solid stump. “Sit down for a minute, I’ve got you.”

Jon drops heavily onto the stump, taking a deep breath as Theon kneels in the dirt, into his line of sight.

He looks wild, Jon notices. Hair untamed and green eyes now dark as coal. Those thieves would not have attacked a man who looks as feral as Theon does now. If they had tried, there would have been no blade at Theon’s throat. Jon looks back at where the bodies lie slumped on the ground, and his eyes water.

“Look at me, Snow. There you are.”

“He — he grabbed me.”

“I know. I know. You’re not hurt,” Theon assures. 

He runs his hands over Jon’s arms, soothing the prickled skin where he’d been lifted off the dirt. Jon looks down to watch his hands roll up and down over the sleeves of his tunic. It had felt like the start of a bruise, when the man had grabbed a hold of him, but Theon’s touch is calming. Gentle.

“I’m sorry,” Jon says suddenly. “I didn’t see them, not until it was too late. They — they could’ve taken the horses, if you hadn’t — They almost did.”

“Hush,” Theon scolds softly, “I don’t give a fuck about the horses.”

That isn’t true. It isn’t what Theon said before he left him. The horses are all they have of value, anymore. They’d never make it to White Harbour on foot, and they don’t have enough to buy new ones and still have coin left for food and shelter, let alone passage on a ship. Theon could be recognized, taken prisoner or killed, if Jon had lost them. He had been trusted to watch their things, and he couldn’t even manage to guard only that, nearly lost it all to the first couple of sickly thieves that stumbled across him.

“Look at me, Jon. Let me see you.” His smile seems blank, when Jon meets his eyes, and he lets out a heavy loud breath. “That’s it. You’re alright. Can you stand now?”

Jon nods, embarrassed, but when Theon helps him up, his hand doesn’t fall away, instead sliding up to Jon’s elbow.

“Come on,” he says again, picking up his forgotten bow and Jon’s sword as they pass the bodies in the snow. “It’ll be too dark to see in front of us soon. Let’s get you out of the cold.”

Jon follows, too shamed to speak.


	18. Jon

Guiding both horses by the reins, Theon leads them on foot through the dense wood to an open acreage where a small farmhouse stands backed by the setting sun. Lit with sconced oil lamps on wooden stilts is a sign painted with a tankard and horseshoe hanging on the front. There’s also a sigil that Jon doesn’t recognize, some minor landed knight, but he doesn’t study it for too long. Outside the stacked stone house are three strapping young farm hands carting a plow back to the barn as the sun sets. One of the lads offers to take the horses off their hands while they settle for the night, and Theon passes over the reins without comment, returns to Jon and pushes through the open door. 

Inside the farmhouse a fire is burning in the hearth, casting a golden light over the rustic interior. A hen pecks over the straw strewn over the floor. Exposed beams are hung with washing pots and drying herbs. In the scullery there is an aging couple who bustle about the hearth floor. Seated in an open windowsill, a cat cleans its ears while surveying the bubbling pots set over the oven. A large copper boiler is steaming with some sort of a stew. There’s another man seated at the counter of the scullery, another traveller, thin and bald, hunched over the counter to scoop stew from his bowl into his mouth. 

Theon doesn’t say anything as he walks to the counter and sits beside the man, leaving the stool at his other side for Jon to slide onto.

“Two,” says Theon to the old woman when she shuffles up to greet them. Before she turns away, he adds quietly, “please. And a room for the night, like I said.” 

Jon only stares at him as the woman fetches their meals.

When Theon catches him staring, he scowls. Jon flinches, looks away, expecting venom from him, but instead all Theon can muster is an exhausted croak. “What, Jon?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says quietly.

“Don’t be. ” Theon’s frown deepens. He glares at the oak countertop. 

The stooped white-haired woman returns and sets two wooden bowls of dark, thick broth and a crust of bread on the counter in front of them. When she smiles kindly at them, Jon sees she’s missing more teeth than she has. Nervously, he smiles back.

Theon eats in silence. Jon has no appetite. He waits until the traveller on Theon’s other side finishes his meal and leaves before he tries again. 

“Don’t be angry with me, Theon,” he murmurs. Jon doesn’t know what he’ll do if Theon won’t forgive him. He has nowhere to go, now. “I’ll be — I’ll be more careful from now on, I swear it.”

“Angry with you?” Theon turns to him.

Jon nods. Theon looks back at his food.

“Gods, Jon, I’m not angry with you.”

Theon's never sounded so affronted. Jon’s stomach rumbles and he reluctantly starts on his meal after a moment, but Theon only stares at his own. Theon had complained about how hungry he’d been not hours earlier, but now he seems only mildly interested in the warm meal in front of him. He picks at his crust of bread before setting it back down in the broth to soak and dropping his head in his hands. 

Jon preferred it when he was shouting at him. At least he seemed more like Theon, then.

And Jon very nearly lost them everything with his carelessness. How witless is he to be so easily bested by a couple of starved thieves? He’d always thought himself a good warrior — strong and quick — but it means nothing if he’s so dimwitted. Choking back fury, Jon keeps his eyes on his bowl as he sops up what’s left of his broth with the last of his crust. 

As Jon nibbles at the last morsel miserably, Theon’s voice cracks over their silence. “Are you — still hungry?”

Of course he’s still hungry. He’s not been this hungry in all his life. They’ve barely eaten the past three days, and Jon is worried that they may not be able to restock what little food they can at this farmstead. Jon only shrugs. He’s starving, but it just means Theon must be, too.

“Here,” Theon tears his hard wedge of bread in half and places it in Jon’s empty bowl. 

Jon only stares at it blankly. 

“Are you alright?” Theon urges.

Silently, Jon nods. 

Theon reaches out and taps Jon’s bowl. “You look ready to faint,” he says with an uncharacteristic seriousness. “Eat it.”

“What about you?”

“Drowned fuck, Jon, just _eat._ ”

Swallowing, Jon snatches the bit of crust from his bowl and tears at it, popping bits of it into is mouth as they break off in his hands.

“Gods,” Theon says as he watches him, “I didn’t mean — don’t be upset. Please.”

Planting his elbows on the counter, Theon holds his head in his hands once more.

What has Jon done? They haven’t even escaped the North yet and already his negligence has forced Theon to kill. It wasn’t a crime, really. It was in defense of Jon’s life. A noble act, even. No lord in all the North would hold him accountable. But even still, did thieves not go hungry too? They were men of the realm, and Theon had killed them. 

Jon watches Theon silently, trying to decide whether or not to touch him. When he reaches his hand out at last, the toothless old woman appears and gathers the dishes in front of them with a smile, and the moment shatters.

Theon digs four coppers from his purse and leaves them on the counter, jumps off his stool. “Come, Jon."

Jon is surprised. He had expected Theon to storm off without him.

Theon is still acting strangely, when they’re up in the room. There are two small cots and a shuttered window. There’s no hearth, only mold, black and soft, spreading from a corner over the floorboards. The beds look far too narrow for more than one body, but Theon sits beside Jon when he drops down on the nearest bed. Jon makes a face, when the wooden frame of it creaks.

“You’re alright, Jon” Theon says, wrapping an arm around Jon’s shoulders, pulling him tight against his side. “Relax.”

In the safety of four walls, head cradled against Theon’s shoulder, exhaustion weighs sudden and heavy on Jon’s body, and he exhales, lets his eyes fall closed. He can hear Theon’s pulse hammering and struggles to speak around a yawn.

“Theon...”

Shushing him, Theon drags his nails through Jon’s hair. Jon could’ve lost them everything they have left to their names. They’ve not even been gone a week from Winterfell and already Jon is in need of rescuing like some helpless child.

“Theon, I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that,” Theon says sharply, his grip tightening in Jon’s hair. “You’ve no need to be sorry.”

"I do, though. They snuck up on me like I was some blind old man. I barely was able to draw my sword before they had me. They would’ve taken everything.”

“Stop that,” Theon snaps, pulling Jon back from his chest to meet his eyes. He does look angry now, and Jon shivers. “It doesn’t fucking matter, alright? Even they had made off with everything we had, I don’t care. I don’t — the horses, the food. Fuck the lot of it. If something outmatches you, and I’m not there, I want you to run.”

“But —”

“I’d get us new horses. I’d steal us food. But I need you safe. Do you hear me?”

Furious with himself, Jon wipes at his eyes and looks away from him. Theon’s stare is too raw, too harrowed, and Jon is just ashamed. 

Theon’s thumb brushes just under Jon’s eyelashes.

“You — you killed them,” Jon whispers, pictures their bodies on the forest floor, and the fact had not really hit him before that moment. They both must still be there, now, laying in the cooling dark. “Killed them both. You’ve never done that, before, have you? Killed a man. I would know if you had. Were you — were you scared?”

“Jon —” Theon’s eyes have gone soft again, and it makes something twist in Jon’s chest. How can Theon still look at him that way? “You needn’t worry about that, alright? It had to be done. And I'm not sorry for it. On the Iron Islands you’re not considered grown until you’ve killed your first enemy. I took — far too long of it, by Pyke’s standards.”

The more Jon learns of Theon’s homeland the less he understands. “You were a man long before today,” Jon tells him with finality.

Theon laughs, a strangled noise. Like it had been when Jon first saw him in the dungeons. 

“And so I’ll have to do it too, one day, won’t I?” Jon asks then. “To be a man? I’ll have to slay an enemy.”

“You will in time.” Theon’s voice sounds strange as he says it. Resolute, but distant. Jon feels him press a kiss against the crown of his head before Theon speaks again. “Where we’re going there’ll be no shortage of thieves and cutthroats and worse, and no Lord Stark to deal justice to any of them for us. We have to protect what’s ours, now. There’s no one else to do it for us. But... it’s not much like I thought it would be. Not like the songs. Wasn’t glorious and righteous. It was…”

Jon wishes he could look him in the face, but Theon keeps him clutched against him, rests his chin on top of Jon's head.

“When the time comes, I’ll be there, whatever happens. You’re your father’s son, I know you’ll do it well.”

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me like this. I’m not a child. I should —”

“Enough of that, now.” Theon interrupts. He pulls away to look Jon in the eye again, and Jon feels his mouth go dry and the power in his gaze. “You needn’t worry yourself, alright? I’d kill every man from here to the Free Cities if that what I needed to do. Understand?”

Jon doesn’t, but he nods anyway.

“You’re not stupid, Jon, and you’re not helpless. You could have taken one toothless thief with a knife on your own. I’ve seen you spar with Robb a hundred times. In a fair fight, it would have been over in a breath.”

Jon doubts that. He’s never felt as scared as he did when that man had grabbed him. The memory still makes him tremble. 

“You’re a man grown as it is, Snow. And you’ll kill your own enemies one day. But don’t… don’t dwell so much on it. I’m here to protect you.”

“Theon, why are you — why aren’t you angry with me anymore?” 

Theon tisks, quiet, and Jon feels tears pulling tight at his throat. 

“You had — you had been so — you had been livid with me before, and then — I almost lost us our horses and our supplies and now you — you’re being so… kind.”

“Shh,” Theon whispers, rocking Jon slightly in his lap. Jon glowers, feeling babied, but Theon doesn’t see, his chin propped onto the crown of Jon’s head. “I want you to... just forget everything I’d said to you, alright? Every word of it. None of it — none of it matters now.”

“But —” 

“Forget it, Jon, please. I was a fool. I hadn’t meant a word of it. I’m yours,” Theon tells him breathlessly, pressing a kiss into Jon’s hair, “don’t — don’t you remember? And you’re... You’re mine.”

His hands are shaking as he brushes a dark lock of Jon’s hair behind his ear. Jon pulls away, meaning to argue, but the heavy drag of fatigue begins to weigh on him again, coaxed back by Theon’s gentle fingers. Though he tries, Jon can’t speak past the yawn that takes him.

“Get some sleep now, Jon. We’ll speak on it in the morning, if we must. Now rest. Alright?”

Jon nods, already fading. The panic has drained him. He allows Theon to lay him back on the straw mattress, begins to doze as Theon pulls off his boots for him. An old quilt is spread over him. 

When Theon gets to his feet, a rush of fear washes through Jon. 

“No —” Jon sits up and graples blindly for Theon’s hand. “No, please lay with me. I — I want you with me.”

A long sigh heaves from Theon’s body. Out of exasperation or relief, Jon’s not sure. “Aye, alright. It’ll be a bit close, though. Come here.”

Jon scoots as much as he can to let Theon into his bed, tension unspooling from him as Theon gets comfortable and gently leads Jon onto his chest. His heart beating so hard that Jon reflexively places an open palm to his chest, trying to calm him. 

Theon wraps an arm around him. “Is this alright?”

Jon hums, sleep taking him before he can manage an answer. 

In his slumber, Jon dreams of the thieves, though this time he is all alone in the woods in the dark of night, and when he calls for Theon, his voice is lost, swallowed by the vapour of dream. From the black, the mortal glint of a blade surges toward him, and Jon jerks awake to utter darkness. 

Terrified, he sits up to scan for light, but there is none. No moon, no stars. 

“Theon,” Jon whispers into the inky blackness of the room. Every shadow is the man who grabbed him. Every rustle is the unsheathing of a rusty knife. “Theon, I — I’m afraid.”

“Shh,” Theon murmurs next to him, half-asleep, pulling Jon back to his chest, “shush now, you’re safe, Jon. I’ll keep you safe.”

His voice is soft, blurry. It reminds Jon of the time he’d crawled into Theon’s bed as a child. _“S’alright Snow. Just rain.”_ Even still, Jon is afraid to shut his eyes again. He stares at where he knows the door is, though no stars show through the slats left of the window, and someone quiet enough could open it right in front of him without Jon ever knowing. 

He doesn’t say anything else, content to let Theon sleep, but Theon shuffles underneath him, grip tightening around his waist.

“Kill anything tries to hurt you.”

Fingers brush Jon’s hair from his face, slow and heavy with sleep. Jon doesn’t answer him, and Theon says nothing else. Jon would think him asleep, if not for the way his fingers wind in his hair. His chest surges and sinks underneath Jon, held tightly in his grip, and the fear melts slowly from his body.

Theon’s hand is still stroking his hair as Jon falls back asleep. This time, he sleeps deeply, and dreams of nothing.


	19. Jon

When Jon next blinks his eyes open, weak milky sunlight beams in through the broken shutters of their window. Theon sleeps soundly beside him. Jon watches him a moment, remembering how he slept beside him in the brothel, or at the inn. Even when Jon had crawled into Theon’s bed after his nightmares. Theon had looked tranquil then, face slack, faintly blushed in peaceful sleep. But the expression on Theon’s face isn’t peaceful now. Pinched and sallow; nervous. Worried, even in slumber. Heart in his throat, Jon tries to get a better look at him, and shuffles to move out from under Theon’s heavy arms.

Like the snap of a whip, Theon jolts upright, wide awake, his grip tightening around Jon’s waist. His eyes are wide, and his breath comes out in a quick, loud gasp. “What — what is it?”

Had he even been asleep? Jon swallows, eyes cast down. “It’s morning.”

Theon’s grip on him loosens, and he looks back toward the shuttered window. He has nothing to say in response, and Jon listens to his breathing slow.

“Are you alright?” asks Theon after a moment.

Jon looks up, curious. 

The air between them seems fragile. Breakable. As if moving may shatter it and leave them both breathless. Theon’s eyes pierce through him, waiting for something. Jon isn’t sure what it could be.

“Jon…”

He was right. The word cracks through the air like a blade and Jon gasps, abruptly lightheaded. Theon doesn’t say anything else, and his hands fall away from Jon’s back. After a moment, he drops them onto his lap between them. Jon looks from Theon’s hands to his face. His eyes are wide and fierce, and Jon can feel the heat thrumming underneath Theon’s skin, desperate and sharp. He recognizes it, the uncertainty veiling Theon’s drive to touch him. Curious and shy, Jon reaches out, brushing his fingers over Theon’s cheek.

To Jon’s dismay, Theon shifts away from him, his eyes cast down. He can still feel it — need buzzing under Theon’s skin like an insect trapped between Jon’s hands — but there’s something else, twisting with it, and Theon won’t reach for him. Biting his lip, Jon slides off the bed.

Theon lets him go easily, but watches closely, his eyes dark. Jon holds his gaze for a moment before glancing back behind him, toward the washbasin.

Once he steps back from the bed, Jon strips off his linen tunic and leaves it discarded on the floor, walking the one long pace to the opposite wall naked to the waist. Their washbasin is really a dented tin bucket filled with well water, but Jon hasn’t washed properly since Winterfell, and he wouldn’t mind if it were a trough for livestock. Robb had packed them a small wedge of lye soap wrapped in paper, warned Jon that most inns wouldn’t have any before White Harbour. Jon had thought it a silly thing to waste space on at the time, but now he’s never been more grateful for Robb’s foresight. 

He kneels on the floorboards before the basin and splashes cold water over his face, letting it run through his hair and down his neck. Shivering, he scoops more under his arms, over his shoulders, before lathering up the soap between his hands and running it through. The soap is plain, made of tallow and unscented. It stings his eyes as he rubs down his face. Taking hold of a wooden ladle, Jon leans his head over the basin and scoops water over his hair, rinsing the suds. Already the difference is welcome, relieving, as the sweat and dirt are washed away. When the water off his hair runs clean, he repeats the action over his arms and neck, sloughing himself clean with his free hand.

Wet skin and hair heightens the chill. A shiver runs up his back. Jon squeezes the last drops out of his hair, wipes his hands off on his trousers.

When he stands, Theon is upright on the bed, rubbing at a blister on his heel. His hair is also wild and unwashed, and that saddens Jon a bit. At Winterfell, Theon had always taken pride in his appearance, to the point where Jon and Robb would call him vain. He would primp for hours at times for seemingly no reason, and Jon never understood who he was trying to impress, but seeing him now, bedraggled and living like a vagabond, it stings deep in Jon’s chest.

Theon looks at him as he drives a knuckle into the sole of his foot, and their eyes lock in quiet for a moment. Yesterday’s events hang like an axe over the room. Theon’s mouth firms into a line, his green eyes troubled. Always so talkative, now his silences have become foreboding and unsettling.

Jon wants to touch him. To comfort somehow. But he never seems to comfort Theon the way Theon does him.

Standing at the edge of the bed, Jon looks down at him, offers a limp sort of smile. The cold has brought goosebumps out on the damp skin of his arms, across his chest. He reaches out a hand, pushes a stray lock out of Theon’s face, tucks it behind his ear. This time, his fingertips linger, brushing over his scalp and neck. 

The few moments of morning quiet don’t last. Theon’s face turns curious, and he takes hold of Jon’s wrist, brings his arm closer. 

There’s a mark on Jon’s upper arm. A bruise, newly dark on his pale skin. Theon rubs his thumb over it, as if trying to wipe it away, but it remains, tender as he does so.

Theon’s body seems to petrify before Jon’s eyes. Ridged and silent, like a statue from the crypts.

“This is from that lot?” Theon murmurs. “Where they grabbed you?”

“It must be,” offers Jon, quietly. He had not noticed it before.

The tendon in Theon’s jaw flexes and releases. “I should have never left you on your own. I was a damned fool, a stubborn fool, and it nearly cost me you.”

“I’m fine, now,” says Jon, ashamed of how small he sounds. “I don’t even feel it. It’s nothing.”

“It’s not, Jon. If I hadn’t come back when I did… if I had only been a moment later… Gods, if I hadn’t stormed off like some fucking child, if I hadn’t said those things, this wouldn’t have happened to you. I swore to your brother...”

Jon’s knees knock against the straw bed as he tries to step closer. Theon draws his thumb over the mark again, and his face crumples. He leans forward, his head against Jon’s breastbone, his warm, shallow breath against his skin. In reaction, without thinking, Jon folds his free hand over the back of Theon’s head, rubs soft circles into his scalp. Two arms wind around Jon’s back. Theon squeezes him tight to his body, barely containing the desperation and fright humming in his limbs.

“I can’t stand it, Jon,” he murmurs against his chest, “I can’t stop thinking about it, keep seeing it in my head whenever I close my eyes. If I lost you, after what I said… if those were the last words you ever heard from me… Those thieves could have — they could’ve...”

He trails off again, and Jon doesn’t press. Just lets Theon talk himself out, cards his hands through Theon’s hair.

Finally, Jon ventures, “It’s alright.”

“No.”

He doesn’t elaborate this time, and Jon doesn’t argue. The quiet around them feels like a presence. Another body in the room, watching them in this private, broken moment. It makes Jon feel oddly protective, as if he should shield Theon from view. Not even before, when they would fall together into bed had Theon ever seemed so vulnerable. Jon feels his heart skip in his chest as he looks down at Theon leaning into him.

After a few more staggered breaths, Theon pulls Jon onto his lap. Jon plants his knees on either side of Theon’s hips, and the bed sinks and creaks beneath their combined weight. Theon’s fingers trace up the knobs of Jon’s spine, from the small of his back to the nape of his neck. Locking his arms more snugly around Jon’s back, there’s a more desperate quality to Theon’s touch, an ache and a longing. He dares not ask, though. And Jon, perhaps for the first time, understands why.

Heart breaking, Jon closes his eyes, leans down and rests his brow against Theon’s. And the two of them sit in the quiet, holding one another, breathing each other’s breath, hearts beating where their bodies meet.

“Do you want me?” offers Jon.

There’s a trembling exhale, Jon can feel it against his cheek. Theon only nods, his hair brushing Jon’s face as he does.

“Okay,” Jon says, leaning forward to kiss him.

Jon’s heart is like an insect trapped in a closed fist, frantic and desperate, beating wild against the ribs that cage it in his chest. He feels when Theon returns his kiss softly, deliberately. Takes hold of the back of Jon’s head, steers him how he likes, forcing them deeper. All they’ve done, and Theon’s kisses still make Jon’s stomach swoop.

It’s been nearly two years now since he lost his virtue, but Jon still likes kissing, thinks he might like it most of all, sometimes. He won’t admit it, though. It’s girlish and silly, something young Sansa would think, having heard a song of a lovely maiden reduced to swoons by her champion’s courtly love. But Theon is practiced, a strong and talented lover, and his kiss reduces Jon to shuddering tremors each time. 

They break apart, and Jon can’t help but to giggle, really more of a gasp. 

He winds his fingers under the hem of Theon’s tunic. “Here, let me get this off you,” Jon urges, “put your arms over your head.”

Theon smiles, steals another kiss before raising his arms. Jon strips the tunic over his head, his hair tousled and wild when he emerges. Jon presses back against him, chest to chest, skin to skin, the fire growing beneath his breastbone. Nails pinch and bite up his back as Theon surges against him, rocking them both atop their musty straw bed. 

In a single, quick swoop, Theon turns them over, has Jon flat on his back over the moth-bitten wool blanket. Jon bites his lip, parts his legs eagerly. They fall into another kiss, moving against one another. Theon slips a hand to the laces of Jon’s pants, tugs them open blind. Jon lifts up his hips to allow Theon to slip them off.

“Go slow, if you can,” Jon chuckles, watching Theon as he clambers out of his own breeches. “I’m still sore from all the riding.”

“No more than me,” returns Theon, folding back over him. “Stiff like a pair of old men, we are. A sign of what the gods have in store for us, some day.”

A burn shoots through his thighs as Theon presses them apart and Jon gasps at the pain. Days on horseback have taken their toll. His body, usually strong and resilient, made achy and tender by a mere week of sleeping rough and hard riding. Jon shifts his hips, pulling against the tension in his muscles.

“Slow, please,” he repeats. “I need it slow.”

“Then you shall have it. Whatever you need.”

His hands are delicate on Jon’s skin. Careful and soft. Jon can feel him trembling as his fingers skate over his chest. His eyes are burning like wildfire, and Jon reaches up to touch him, cups the tendons of his neck. He feels it again, the hesitation, the restraint thrumming under Theon’s skin. Somehow he’s both desperate and terrified to touch him.

Jon lifts his head and closes the distance between them, a kiss warm and gentle and encouraging, and Theon melts against it.

“Jon,” Theon is already breathless as he pulls away, and Jon feels him shivering as if he’s freezing. “Jon, you’re certain? We have to ride today. I don’t — if I hurt you…”

“You won’t hurt me,” Jon whispers, tugging gently at Theon’s hair. Theon doesn’t relent, watching Jon fervently. “You would — would never hurt me. I know it. Just go slow.” 

“I won’t hurt you,” Theon parrots back, his voice hushed. 

He kisses down Jon’s throat, and Jon lets out a gasp when Theon’s mouth trails down to his chest. His lips are so delicate on Jon’s skin that it feels like the brush of a feather. His eyes slide shut, and for a moment, Jon feels his hands, fingers trembling as they skate careful over Jon’s chest, but then the touch vanishes, and Jon’s eyes snap open again to see him sitting back on his heels to reach back at his forgotten breeches on the floor.

“Won’t hurt you,” Theon repeats distractedly, his hands shaking as he works the vial from his belt. His eyes are cast down, focused on his hands. “I’ll take care of you.”

He doesn’t sound like himself. His voice is timid and small. Jon sits up. 

“You will. I know,” Jon assures quietly. 

The cork pulls from the vial at last, and Jon blinks down when the sweet smell of almonds fills the tiny room. 

“Oh, don’t use that, here,” Jon whispers, stretching to reach their leather satchel he’d left on the floor. “I’ve got saddle oil —”

“No, leave it,” Theon answers, dragging Jon back up into the bed one-handed. 

Jon has nothing to say, just nods, awkwardly. When they first laid together in the godswood, Theon had groused over his precious almond oil then, when it was much easier to replace. They don’t have the money to spend on such trivial things now, if they could even find a merchant to stock it. Jon’s amazed Theon even still has it nestled in his pouch. 

“Lay back,” Theon tells him gently, leaning forward to press a kiss into Jon’s neck as he recorks the vial and sets it on the mattress. “Let — let me see you.”

Before Jon can react, Theon’s clean hand tucks against the small of his back and guides him down, his other hand sliding down carefully between Jon’s legs.

Jon yelps from surprise of warm oil on his skin, and Theon shushes him gently, nosing at his jaw.

“How’s that?” Theon whispers, his finger teasing gingerly against Jon’s skin.

It churns hot in Jon’s blood, and he nods. His touch is so soft that Jon’s head starts to spin in seconds. Teeth nip delicate over the thin skin of his pulse. Theon’s hand doesn’t move any faster, any further. Just light, careful circles rolling slick and warm just short of inside.

“Theon —” 

Theon only purrs in response like a satisfied cat. His touch is so subtle it almost feels as if Jon is dreaming, turned dizzy and mewling from barely anything at all.

“Theon,” Jon whimpers again, squirming back against Theon’s hand, “please…”

“Shh.” Theon’s breath is cool against Jon’s throat, mouthing down to his chest. “Shh, I’ve got you.” 

His lips brush soft against Jon’s skin, trailing light and slick down Jon’s belly. He jolts as Theon’s tongue swipes into his navel in the same instant his finger drags over his entrance. Theon huffs a laugh, tilting his chin to nip his teeth just barely into Jon’s side. His breath feels warmer now, and Jon’s head spins as he looks down to watch. Theon’s back is arched over him like a cat, lashes long and dark against his sallow cheeks. He hasn’t seen such peace on Theon’s face in weeks.

The closer Theon draws to Jon’s cock, the more lightheaded Jon becomes. Excitement thrums under his skin at the realization of what Theon plans to do. Theon’s tongue moves over the soft hair just below Jon’s navel, and it’s almost more than he can take already. He’s turning desperate and filthy, and Theon will give him everything.

A helpless gasp pulls out of Jon as Theon’s lips wrap over the head of his cock. His body moves without his assent, heaving forward, and he whimpers at the warm silk drag of Theon’s throat before he jerks backward.

“Sorry,” Jon whimpers, “I’m sor — sorry…”

“Don’t be,” Theon groans against his thigh. His voice is raw and quiet. The hand between Jon’s legs is still working, soft, slow circles along the razor edge of not enough. “Do any — anything you want.”

There’s something Jon means to say, something grateful and imploring, but Theon licks a stripe up the length of his cock and all Jon sees is stars. Hot, dense breath exhales over his thighs, his abdomen. Gasping, groaning, Jon turns his face into the wool, writhes in pleasure. Desire burns from the inside out. A deep blush rises on his cheek. Had it truly been so long? 

Theon smiles, sighs. Passes his tongue over the head in a long, lavacious swipe. The sight is almost too much. Jon has to grip the sheets beneath him to keep himself from bucking hard.

The hand between his legs breaches him in a smooth, steady glide. Jon’s jaw falls open. The sting is extraordinary, sharp and lancing through the dull ache of his haggard body. Halting, Theon drops his head, takes Jon in his mouth again and Jon has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. The walls are thin. They know firsthand.

Allowing for a moment of recovery, Jon masters himself, lets the pain burn out of him, smolder into embers that turn him warm and loose from the inside out. 

Theon repositions himself, slinks onto his knees. His practiced mouth makes the pain more bearable, like a thick morning fog in Jon’s mind, wet and warm. Almost without him noticing, Theon manages to slip another finger inside, working him open slowly. Jon almost curses. Not for the first time, he questions how talented a lover Theon is. Perhaps Jon is well and truly ruined now, having been despoiled by such a practiced man, his tastes now unmeetable by ordinary bedmates. That thought curls around Jon’s heart, like something precious, and he can’t help but to latch onto that feeling. Melding with the waves of pleasure and soreness cascading up his body. Clings to it in the face of everything.

Desperate to touch, Jon grips Theon’s hair. From between his legs, Theon hums in response. It thrusts fire up Jon’s spine and a gasp escapes him. Satisfied, Theon crooks his fingers and Jon can’t stop from shaking.

He had wondered what it would be like, in his lewder, private fantasies, to have it both ways, like this. With two partners, both within and without. Sometimes, when Theon had taken him, bent him over and thrown a hand between his legs, it had felt something like Jon imagined it would. That time with Ros, Jon had been tempted to try, but his worry over fathering children would’ve killed any enjoyment he might have gotten from it. Instead it had remained an unvoiced thought. The perverted fancy of a silly, young, eager boy. Now, here, perhaps it’s the closest Jon will ever get to knowing. It feels so greedy. Such a bald and unabashed want. Jon would feel undeserving, if he had the capacity to care at all. 

With a final languid suck, Theon releases him with a wet pop. Bows over Jon and slips his free arm under his back.

“Arms around me,” he orders, “sit up now.”

Doing as he’s told, Jon throws his arms around Theon’s neck. The rickety bed creaks loudly as Theon pulls them both upright; arranges Jon in his lap as he sits back against the rough wooden headboard. 

Blinking, Jon finds Theon’s face again. They gaze at one another. There is no more pretending between them, no more guarded expressions and withheld desires. On Theon’s face there is nothing but naked affection. And that frightens Jon a little bit. He would do anything for Theon. Perhaps that is foolhardy and dangerous, but he cannot deny it. He won’t.

“How’s this?” asks Theon, aligning himself with Jon’s entrance. “Up like this. Want to see you. Can you take it like this?”

“I can, yes,” breathes Jon, bracing a hand on the wall at either side of Theon’s head, a lock of dark hair tumbling into his eyes. His legs burn to support his weight upright, but it only drives him on. He can take it.

When Theon is inside of him, Jon bites his knuckle to keep quiet. There is no pain from it—Theon had been careful preparing him—but the sore ache from riding and sleeping on the ground extends throughout every tissue of his body. The intensity makes him tremble, not an unpleasant or discomforting sensation, but powerful, overwhelming. How strange it is, that thick, syrupy sort of pain melding with the pleasure, like alloys in a smithy’s forge, heated and recombined into something more exquisite than before.

“There, Jon,” Theon purrs, his voice like warm honey as he tucks the loose curl behind Jon’s ear. “Look at me, now. Just me.” 

Absently, Jon nods, turns his face into the touch of strong hands. 

When Theon smiles at him, it finally looks genuine. “Aren’t you just — just beautiful.”

Theon rocks his hips, once, testing. The tilt of their bodies is like a bolt of lightening in Jon’s guts. Theon truly _had_ stolen him away, in the end. Just like he always promised — or threatened — to do. With some persuading, Theon had taken him for his own, intent to keep him. And who else would do that for him? No one has ever wanted Jon that much, not even his own father.

From there, they go slow. Theon rocks him in his lap, deep, long movements. Jon lets him, resting his brow against Theon’s, breathing each other’s air, watching even as they’re far too close to see each other clearly. A cramp is building in Jon’s thigh but he doesn’t care, just surrenders to the sensation, lapping against his body like rain on a roof. It has been so long. It feels like a lifetime since they have been here, tangled and wanton and indulgent. Jon was so certain he had lost this forever. Now that they are together, he will be certain to have Theon lay down his mark. Bite him, claw him, own him. Show that they belong to each other. Jon rolls his hips, writhing as the hungry fire inside him grows, watching as the sensation of it shudders across Theon’s face. He takes hold of Jon's hips in both hands, gripping him to as Jon rides him. Theon's hold is like a vice, steadying, guiding, and Jon's face blushes bright red and hot.

He can feel it when Theon starts to get close, starts to increase their languid rhythm, starts to lose the pace. Hooks an arm under one of Jon’s knees and lifts for a better angle. Jon forgets to stifle his moan that time.

_At last_ , Jon thinks.

Rapidly, Jon’s body is losing focus, going slack. Theon’s arms slide up his back and Jon pushes down into his lap eagerly.

“Don’t let go,” Jon murmurs, hoping he can be heard. “Gods, don’t let go.”

Theon groans, and tightens his grip. “S’aright, I have you.”

Hands braced against the headboard, Jon finds Theon’s eyes, wills his own vision to focus. Cheeks flushed, panting, it plunges Jon deeper into the waves of sweet pleasure rolling through him. They stare at one another, and Jon knows in an instant he’s undone. Theon’s stormy, celadon eyes watching him, like no other colour Jon has ever seen. Not in tapestries, not in a noblewoman’s gems. Nothing like it in the world. Jon loves Theon’s eyes.

His younger self would have sooner died than let Theon Greyjoy know that.

When, at last, Theon comes, he’s panting hard against Jon’s neck, and the heat of his breath overwhelming. Senses push past the point of feeling, and everything falls away. _At last_ , Jon thinks again, heat enveloping him from the inside out as his vision rolls over white. 

Time passes. It must, though Jon doesn’t feel as if it does. Theon doesn’t let go, doesn’t pull away, and Jon’s body slowly finds himself again, in staggered pieces.

He expects Theon to pull away when their breathing has slowed, but he doesn’t move except to press a kiss to Jon’s neck. For a long moment, the only sound in the room is their breathing.

“Nothing is going to — to hurt you. I swear it,” Theon whispers, his lips just behind Jon’s ear. It makes Jon’s heart beat faster, even as a promise he knows Theon can’t keep. Spent as he is, Jon still feels his breath catch in his chest. “Anyone gets near you again… if anyone even tries…”

“I know,” Jon says at last. Tension seeps from Theon’s back, and Jon feels him drop against the rough headboard as Jon curls tight around his shivering chest. “You’ll protect me.”

Jon thinks for a moment he feels something wet slick over his throat where Theon’s face is tucked into his shoulder. Jon sits in Theon’s lap in stunned silence until Theon finally whispers, “I’m going to take you off me, now. Is that — is that alright?”

Jon nods, knowing Theon can feel it. There’s something calming in their silence now. Warm. No longer awkward and tense. Theon’s hands plant firmly on either side of Jon’s waist and help him carefully onto his knees. The emptiness that follows, even slow and easy as it is, makes Jon gasp. Theon’s response is instant, pulling Jon to his chest and shushing into his hair.

“That’s it, Jon,” Theon whispers after a moment, his voice low and cracking. “I’ve got you, I have you.”

They have to ride soon. Jon can feel the rising sun warming the wooden planks that board their window shut. But Theon doesn’t speak or move as if they have anywhere to be at all. Jon can feel his heart, pounding steady and deep under Jon’s fingers.

“I’m not frightened,” Jon admits finally. He isn’t, any longer. Theon would kill to protect him. He has now. Jon will always be safe. He’s quiet for a moment, lets Theon nod as he rocks Jon in his lap. Remembering Robb’s words to him, Jon adds firmly, “And I’m going to protect you, too.”

Arms squeeze tight around Jon’s back. Theon does not speak.

The quiet after is always bittersweet, to Jon. The heady rush of pleasure ebbs away like the dusk, and they surface back to the world together, hesitant to disturb one another. The little aches and discomforts of his body resurface. The chill from his wet hair, newly slicked with sweat. Now, he would have to wash again in the dirty water. They both would. 

Despite everything, Jon can’t help but laugh.

“You must tip that poor woman double, when we leave,” he murmurs, indicating the soiled blanket beneath them.

Theon huffs, chuckles. Runs a hand warmly through Jon’s slicked curls. “For you, I would buy every wretched, tattered quilt in this whole farmstead.”

Jon taps him affectionately, smiles, but inside, the silly boast thrills him. “Don’t be daft,” he says jokingly, “that’d be a damn waste of coin all so you could have me on a pile of rags.”

Grinning, Theon leans down to kiss him, but as he does the dim light of morning falls over his face, and Jon catches sight of a light purpling along his cheekbone. Where Jon had hit him. Pushed to it by Theon’s cruel words. He pulls back, eyes pinned to it as he remembers again everything they’d said to each other before separating, before the bandits. 

Theon blinks, curious noting the slip in Jon’s expression, and Jon reaches up to touch the coming bruise on his face.

For a moment, Jon means to apologize for slapping him, but instead what leaves his mouth is, “You can’t speak to me that way anymore.” 

Theon doesn’t answer, and Jon swallows, keeping his gaze. 

“We’re both bastards now, aren’t we? Outlaws and runaways. You can’t treat me as a lesser man any longer. I didn’t leave Winterfell to be treated as Lord Eddard Stark’s bastard son all the same. Not by you, least of all. Theon, you’re all I have in the world, now.”

Once more, the room falls silent. Then Theon speaks, his voice low, “I know.”

It shocks Jon, somewhat, that he acquiesces so easily. At the start of summer, Theon would have laughed at him, snidely called him a bastard anyway and hopped down from his bed. Now, Theon only stares back at him, face contrite.

“I’d not meant — even as I said it I hadn’t meant it. I said it because I knew it would upset you. That does not undo that I did say it, I know that. It was an unworthy thing to say to you. On my return I was trying to think of what I would even say to you to win your forgiveness. And then I saw you held by those thieves…”

He winces, trailing off, and Jon watches him.

“I said cruel things, too,” Jon says at last, finally dropping his eyes to his hands. “And I’m sorry for them.”

“Aye,” Theon says with a little smirk, “that’s different, though, isn’t it? You’d not have said anything at all if I hadn’t started in on you.” Jon frowns, and Theon shakes his head. “You’re actually quite a timid thing, when being spiteful. Your voice wavered the whole time. Perhaps you believe such things, but you never do mean to say them, do you? Better manners than that, you have.”

“I don’t believe those things I said to you,” Jon argues. “Like you said, I knew it would hurt you.”

“Aye,” Theon answers, “I trust you.”

Hearing it makes Jon feel warm. He bites his lip. “I trust you, too.”

He expects Theon to smile at that, something to indicate he feels the same warm thrill that Jon does in hearing it. Instead, when he smiles, it looks off. Melancholy, like it had when he’d smiled at Jon down in the Winterfell dungeons. Before Jon can say anything further, Theon leans forward and kisses Jon’s neck, teeth grazing his skin.

Flustered, Jon whispers, “Theon…”

Theon only hums in response, running his lips over Jon’s throat. For a split second, a fire twists in Jon’s gut, thinking that Theon may bite down on his thin skin — mark him as Jon had done to Theon a lifetime ago, cooped up together in the winter town inn. But Theon’s teeth don’t sink in to his throat. He only noses gently at Jon’s pulse. Jon is disappointed. 

“We should dress,” Jon tells him quietly, but the heavy air between them doesn’t dissipate. Theon merely hums again. “Theon?”

“Aye, we should,” Theon admits finally, still holding Jon warm against his chest. “I know we should, I just —”

He doesn’t finish, but he doesn’t have to for his words to have weight. Jon feels them sink into his skin, making the room sway. Jon’s own desire clouds his sensibility quite often. Theon is aware of it many times, especially when they first laid together in the godswood. _I want to stay here. Forever._ But Theon has never admitted to similar things before. Jon wasn’t even sure he’d ever felt such silly fancies.

“Theon,” he whispers, his breath short, “we’ll freeze our cocks off here, come winter.”

Theon’s laugh bursts from his mouth, loud and sharp like a dog’s bark. Jon grins, watching his laughter overtake him for a moment, eyes crinkling and head thrown back. Him swearing always makes Theon laugh, and Jon hasn’t seen Theon laugh this way in what feels nearly an age. It makes Jon feel light, seeing him so happy — knowing he must remember their first time in the godswood just as clearly, to find the words so amusing.

“Oh, you think you’re clever, do you?” Theon manages finally, still chuckling as he meets Jon’s eyes.

Jon smiles. “And so what if I do?” 

With a snort, Theon flips Jon onto his back and runs his fingers ticklish over Jon’s ribs until he squeals. 

“You can wash after me then,” Theon teases as Jon flails, “you clever little brat.”

He plants another quick kiss on Jon’s exposed throat before hopping up from their bed and making his way to their wash basin. The water is dusty now, bits of leaves washed from Jon’s hair floating amidst swirls of suds. But Theon doesn’t seem to mind, taking the small wedge of soap Jon left on the floor and lathering it into his scalp. Jon watches him wash with fascination. It’s different, surely, than how Theon would wash himself in Winterfell. There he had his sweet oils to add, and hot water drawn from the walls. A large enough basin that he could sit inside it and soak. He would comb his hair, perhaps trim his nails, chew mint leaves from the glass gardens to relieve his stale breath. Jon wishes he could have watched him then, relaxed and warm. But Jon is still intrigued by the sight. Theon has grown so feral in the days since they left Winterfell. He’s eager to see what he can of Lord Greyjoy returned.

Theon doesn’t bother to take a razor to his face. Jon hadn’t, either. They will do so in time, but while they’re in the North, it’s an easy disguise. When Theon steps away from the basin, his untamed hair is slicked back from his face, and he shakes his head like a dog to rid the water from his hair. 

When he catches Jon staring, he winks. “Go on,” he grins, “wash my stink off you so we can keep on.”

Blushing, Jon drops down from their straw mattress and rinses his body again. Perhaps it’s the way Theon had phrased it, but this time he doesn’t bother to be quite so thorough.


	20. Theon

The village at the forks has no name that Theon knows. It had simply always been called the village at the forks. A cluster of mills and pastures and a modest sept in the cobbled square, a rarity in the North. Theon has never visited there, until now. There is no high lord’s holdfast to attend, the sort of thing that might have brought him along with Lord Stark on liege matters. Only common folk live here. Though it is a meagre village, there is still more to the village at the forks than the sparse farmsteads they had travelled by; the cobblestone square furnishes a smithy, a common oven, a fishmonger’s market, and a small inn.

And there is another new sight when they come upon the village proper. Atop the quaint dome of the sept is an iron spire that ends in a seven-pointed star, and beneath it, the seven-tailed peace banner of the Faith. And beneath that, trailing in the weak breeze, a verdigris coloured flag emblazoned with a silver merman who held aloft a trident.

Everything south of the fork of the White Knife is land of House Manderly.

Despite knowing better, knowing it is foolish, Theon cannot quash the thrill of success. Manderly lands put one further obstacle between he and Jon and capture. However trivial an obstacle it may be in reality. Theon had learned early from his time in the North that the Manderlys are fiercely devoted to their liege, and there is no question that if he and Jon were to be discovered, Lord Wyman Manderly would have them clapped in chains and marched back to Winterfell on foot. They would not find sympathetic hosts with this Warden of the White Knife. 

But still, the blue-green banner appears to Theon a beacon of freedom. They are that much closer to White Harbour, and to the sea.

Theon had not felt it straight away, the odd sort of elation from killing those thieves. He had not noticed it, at the time. Far too intent on Jon’s wellbeing to be aware of his own. But as they reach the bustling town at the river’s fork, Theon is aware of a change in him. Something dark and sharp that crawls along the inside of his skin when someone’s eyes linger on Jon a moment too long.

Soft, sweet Jon doesn’t seem to take notice of such things. The thieves have made him somewhat reserved these last few days, his eyes watching his feet as Theon rides beside him. 

But Theon notices. Theon is aware of every vagrant who glances Jon’s way, and has to stifle the dark possessive growl that calls for him to release an arrow into their hearts.

Being alone with Jon until now has made Theon suddenly insatiable, desperate to pull him away from the crowds at every turn. Throw him down, claim him. Mark him. Theon only wants to protect him. Always protect him.

They ride into the square. Villagers mill about, a few casting appraising glances at the two mounted strangers, but mostly ignoring them. The hour is late in the afternoon, and workers have turned in from the fields; lamps are being lit. Folks begin filtering toward the wattle and daub innhouse for an evening’s drink. By the bakery, with it’s large brick oven open to the square, a dog chases a hen as it pecks at spilled grain. A group of young ragamuffin boys tend fishing poles on the riverbank, scrambling about the reeds, shouting and jeering.

Reaccommodating to the constant murmur of the town is more difficult than Theon expected. They have been alone in the wilderness for a fortnight, listening only to the birdsong and and the wind in the leaves and the gurgle of the river. Now there is clanging steel, creaking wheels, honking livestock, voices murmuring. After so much quiet, it all rings in Theon’s head.

“Tough road, lads?” calls a young man as he pauses from shoeing a horse. A laugh follows from his comrades as they each spot Jon and Theon on horseback.

Theon has not seen his own face in a mirror since the Stark men marched him to the Winterfell dungeons. They must be a sight, travel garb stiff with river mud, hair overgrown and uncombed, both unshaven since they overnighted at the farmstead. He can look at Jon and see the effects of their rough living: face ashen, eyes sunken and ringed in dark circles, his lovely, plush mouth chapped and bitten. In his gloves, Theon’s hands are cracked and rough, fingernails torn. They have pushed hard, and it shows.

Gathering himself, Theon dons a good-natured smile at the farrier, “None so tough as some I’ve ventured. We’re travelling to White Harbour with some matter of haste,” he proffers, adding somewhat belatedly, “down from the Hornwood.”

“Aye, every man travelling through here is on the way to someplace better,” pipes one of the young apprentices.

“With great haste, as well!” adds another.

A great round of laughter goes up among the two lads. Observing from where the horse is tethered, an elder man with a stern face and short greying hair wipes his hands on a rag before tossing it at one of the jokesters. The boy catches and quickly falls quiet.

“Long journey,” comments the older, weathered man in a leather apron as he approaches them. “Might you lads be looking for a spot to stable your mounts for a time, then? We’ll see them watered and fed, shod with fresh iron.”

Theon’s smile turns genuine, then. A man after a payment is simple to win over.

“Certainly, friend,” he responds, adopting his most affable demeanor, “poor beasts are worse off than we, no doubt. See them well tended and brought to the inn tomorrow morning, and we shall see you similarly well-tended.”

Theon bends and fishes a handful of coppers from the leather purse lashed to the saddle. Extends his hand to the old man, who steps forward to take it. 

“Lowen,” the ferrier offers.

“Martyn,” Theon blurts on impulse, maintaining his smile.

The farrier glances to Jon, anticipating his introduction as well. But Jon only ducks further into his cloak, averts his eyes and doesn’t proffer a name at all.

An awkward moment passes before the man relents, uninterested in learning Jon’s name having already secured his day’s pay.

“Well, lads, well met, and seven blessings to you. Drink to your safe travels tonight.”

They leave the horses with the farrier and his apprentices. Unlashing their gears from their saddles, Theon and Jon shoulder their bags make for the inn.

Night falls in the village at the forks, and the inn is crowded. Far more crowded than the farmstead had been. Indeed, it is the only such place in the village that men might gather after dark. It is a small floor, strewn with reeds and hay, and surely it is not so many men and women gathered, but the small space seems fuller with fewer bodies. The tavern floor seems to surge with people, much like the inn in the winter town back when the Riverlanders came to the North.

It has not escaped Theon’s notice how quiet Jon has been since they caught sight of the village square. Or, truly, for some days now. He hasn’t said a word to the barmaids or the villagers. Jon Snow is known for his prolonged silences, but Theon doesn’t think he’s been this quiet since they left Winterfell.

He doesn’t speak at all as they are given a room, and only nods and mumbles affirmatively when Theon leaves him to get them ale and food. They are no longer as starving as they had been back at the farmstead, but still eat quickly, and mostly in silence.

As they rise from their supper dishes in the tavern, a young man in rags brushes past Jon, his shoulder ramming into him enough that Jon stumbles. Just for a moment, Theon sees it on his face. Blind terror as he catches himself against the rickety table at his hip. 

Panicked, Theon jumps from his chair and reaches for Jon, hand wrapped firmly around his wrist.

Fear evaporates. Jon’s eyes meet Theon’s and he smiles, timid at first, but then it widens as his vision seems to focus.

“I’m alright,” Jon assures him. He doesn’t try and release himself from Theon’s grip. “It’s alright.”

Without letting go of him, Theon nods. “Let’s get to bed,” he mumbles, leading Jon away from the tables and toward the stairs. “We have to be up before the sun tomorrow to make up for the day we lost.”

Even as he says it, it feels like a lie. He has no intention to crawl into bed just yet. Killing those thieves still vibrates anew under his skin, as if the fatal arrows only just loosed from his bow. He sees the blood steaming in the cold as he leads Jon to their room. Theon feels his hands shaking as he pulls Jon into their room.

“Come here, Jon,” he says as he slams the door behind them. “Let me look at you.”

Jon nods, chewing at his lip. “I am — I am alright. Truly. Don’t fret over me, I’m fine.”

“You are,” Theon says firmly. “That is never going happen again. I won’t let it. Do you understand me?”

Confusion flickers on Jon’s face. Clueless thing that he is, it takes him a moment to realize Theon doesn’t mean that he’ll protect him from bumping elbows in crowds.

“Oh,” he says as it occurs to him. His voice comes out an odd, tense little laugh. “That. I know, I trust —”

“If another man so much as touches you I’ll have his head,” Theon interrupts wildly. “No matter where we go, you will be safe, I swear it to you. I’ve done it once now and I have no fear in doing it again. Do you hear me?”

Struck, Jon nods. Theon can feel him shivering, but his eyes are wide. He doesn’t speak, but his mouth falls open.

Panic drags Theon’s heart into his throat, and he swallows, working to unclench his hands from Jon’s tunic. He’s seen that look on Jon’s face before, back at the farmstead when Theon tried to share his meal and he practically dissolved into tears. 

“Jon, are you — are you frightened of me?”

Jon shakes his head instantly, vigorously, and Theon’s chest loosens.

“No, Theon,” assures Jon, voice so sweet he sounds as if he’s speaking to a child. “I’ve — I’ve never been afraid of you. You would never hurt me.”

But he’s more than unafraid. He’s awed. Jon likes it too, Theon realizes with a twist of heat in his chest, that Theon has killed for him.

“Good,” Theon says breathlessly, leaning forward to kiss him. “Then take — take all this off. Now.”

It’s not like the first time, after the thieves. Theon had been so hesitant, then. What he had walked in on between Jon and those filthy men had turned his blood to ice. Even long after they’d gone, Theon still had to shake from his head all the fears that those thieves could have left him for dead, or worse — had the same sadistic wants as Euron. 

But as Jon does what he’s told and strips off his riding leathers and breeches, Euron no longer leads Theon’s fears. They are surrounded by throngs of working villagers asleep in their beds, and all that is left of the thieves are the memories of a pool of bloody dirt and milky eyes. It no longer matters what the thieves could have done; would have done. All that matters now is that they didn’t. They didn’t because Theon killed them.

Fumbling and hasty, Jon undresses, stripping out of his grey tunic against the door. Casting it to the floor. His beautiful skin, his well-made arms, his slim chest and narrow hips; Theon cannot look away from him. All that Jon is, he trusts to Theon, and Theon almost let that be taken from him, almost let all that come to ruin.

A shiver jerks through Jon’s body, and Theon presses close to him again, leather and oilskin and fur against bare flesh, one hand buried in Jon's hair as Theon brushes his thumb gently over his bottom lip.

“Are you cold, Snow?”

“No,” Jon answers, voice coming out flat this time as he nests a hand in Theon’s tunic. “No, I’m — I’m fine.”

“Good.” Theon hand kneads the flesh at Jon’s hip. “Gods you’re beautiful.”

A fierce blush blooms on Jon’s cheeks.

“No one is ever going to hurt you again, Jon,” Theon hisses through his teeth. “Do you hear me? No one… no one will ever hurt you.”

Jon’s eyes are shining, his voice hoarse as he whispers, “You can’t promise that, Theon.”

“I _can,_ ” Theon snarls, slamming his fist in the door beside Jon’s head. Jon doesn’t flinch at all, and somehow it makes Theon’s heart clench harder than if he had. “I _can,_ Jon. I… I will...”

Something passes over Jon’s face then. Curiosity, hesitance. Brows knitting together in that precious frown, and Theon’s heart breaks, that Jon cannot possibly know what he means.

“You think you know what men are like?” Theon demands, leaning in, planting his elbows against the door on either side of Jon’s head, bracketing him in. “You think they are all like your father? Hmm? Bound to their honour and their virtue for love of the realm? Never a wicked thought to cross their mind? That they will take no advantage, not exploit an opportunity that presents itself? A sweet boy like you? They will all leave you bleeding if they have the chance.” He hangs his head, unable to bear the look on Jon’s face. “You have _no idea_ what men are like, Jon. They do not overlook a weakness. They _take_ what they want.”

Ashamed, Theon cannot look at him. The outburst fizzles out of him and he swallows, recapturing his calm in long, staggering breaths. Before him, he focuses on Jon’s neck, Jon’s chest, and feels that dread plummet through him again, that he had almost lost him. Of course Jon cannot imagine it. How could he? All he knows of the world he learned at the hands of his father, a man so peerless they speak his name in all seven kingdoms. He cannot fathom the depths of hunger that lie in other men’s hearts, their filthy wants, their vile intentions. How they will ravage and pillage the meek.

Against the door, Jon has gone very still. His chest rises and falls against Theon’s. After a moment, his arms come up, his hands sliding up over Theon’s shoulders. Tender, like he always is. Fingers tilt his head back up so that Jon can kiss him.

Soft, he kisses so soft. Even with chapped lips and an unshaven face, Jon’s mouth is soft like a silken purse. It makes Theon’s knees go weak, makes his heart clench. He cannot stand soft right now, cannot bear it.

Both hands clench in Jon’s hair, wrenching his head back. He gasps, and Theon forces a savage, plundering kiss, biting Jon’s lip, teeth clacking together. Through his travel clothes, he can feel Jon’s body shudder against him. He wants to possess the very air from Jon’s lungs, everything he has, so that no one else may have it. Without breaking the kiss, he tears at his own clothes, rucks the hem of his tunic out of the way, unlaces his pants blind. Fishes the oil from his belt—they are never without it now—and takes himself in hand, slickening himself hard.

He reaches down, grips Jon around his thighs and heaves him up, slamming his back against the door. Jon moans, kicking, locking his ankles around Theon’s hips. He throws his arms over his head, gripping the top of the door for support. 

Snarling, Theon does not bother to prepare him. Only shoves his slickened cock inside of him in a single, long thrust. 

Jon cries out, shocked, fingers scrabbling overhead. It only spurs Theon, clawing at Jon’s thighs, wrenching his body to him. Jon whimpers, perhaps from pain, perhaps from pleasure, and Theon leans upright to take in the sight of him. Jon’s head is tilted back, eyes shut, mouth slack and open. His arms, strengthened and wirey from their weeks in the wilderness, thrown up over his head. Dark, heavy curls splay against his white limbs. Bent, Jon’s bare stomach tenses, straining to keep the position. Theon can feel Jon’s thighs clench and grind around him, drawing him inside. A lancing shiver runs throughout Theon’s body, and he rolls his hips with a pointed thrust. Then again. And again, forcing breathy, broken moans from Jon’s body each time.

Theon does not deserve him. Never has, and certainly not now, after the danger he had put him in. But it doesn’t matter now. They’ve nowhere to return to now, no home that will take them, and Theon would rather die than give him up. 

“I’ll kill all of them,” Theon huffs, curling forward against Jon’s neck, “any man who touch — touches you, I’ll drain the life right from them. Do you hear me? I’ll murder every last one.”

He can feel Jon’s legs quivering in his arms. Perhaps it’s too far, the things he’s saying, transgressive and wrong. But Theon can’t think clearly enough to take it back, can’t think clearly enough to stop. Jon’s body is soft and warm and yielding and it’s turning him mad.

“Theon,” Jon manages breathlessly, the word catching hard in his throat at the end of another thrust, “Theon, that’s —” His eyes have gone glassy and dark. He likes it. He _likes_ it. He shakes his head once, tries again: “That’s…”

Whatever he means to say, Theon is too impatient to listen to him stammering. “It’s no more a crime than they tried to commit, trying to — to take what’s mine.”

And perhaps Jon doesn’t want to like those words, sweet thing that he is. But Theon can feel him shaking, and hears the soft moan that leaves his mouth. He looks so beautiful like this, face slack in bliss, sagging limp in Theon’s arms, eyes dark and flashing as his hands grip weakly for purchase behind his head. The sight of him is intoxicating, poisoning sensible thought. The door rattles on its iron hinges with each thrust. No doubt, the rhythmic slamming can be heard throughout the inn, Theon is certain. Good, he thinks, let them hear it. Let them all know that Jon is his. That Jon is not to be touched.

“You’re mine now, Jon,” Theon growls. Rage is seething just under his skin, fury at every living creature that isn’t Jon. “I stole you away and now you’re only — only mine. I’ll kill anyone else who — comes near you.”

Dropping his grip on the top of the door Jon grips Theon’s back, nails clawing. Tearing at his shoulders, his neck. His nails are sharp now, long and unkept. They scratch hard lines into Theon’s skin, even through his clothes, burning enough that they must break the skin.

It is exquisite, the pain tripping over the overwhelming sensation of everything else, of being inside Jon, of the whole building knowing it, and Theon falls forward, driving further into Jon, shoved hard against the shaking door. His mind is thick with fog, hot and faded to nothing but the feeling of Jon’s skin. He smells of woodsmoke and sweat and Theon longs for the taste of it, the feel of him, he’s everywhere at once.

Out of the corner of his eye, Theon sees the bruise on Jon’s arm, faded yellow by now, but still sickeningly visible. Someone else’s mark on Jon’s perfect skin. Proof that someone else had dared touch him, dared leave a mark. It turns Theon’s blood to boiling.

He can’t help himself, bowing forward to sink his teeth into the soft skin at Jon’s pulse. His. Jon is his. No one will touch him ever again. Theon will see to that.

It’s a moment before Jon reacts to the bite. His tendons pull tense slowly, until he’s drawn tight under Theon’s jaws. He lets out a sound, low and soft, and drops slack in Theon’s jaw as it tightens. He’s like a hare caught in a trap, just as fragile, just as vulnerable. The grip of flesh between his teeth makes Theon delirious, close, and his hips jerk hard enough that Jon’s neck falls free of him.

“Mine,” Theon babbles, too close to release to give his words pause, “you’re mine, just — just mine.” He grabs a fistful of Jon’s hair and shakes him, more force than he really should. “Look at me, Jon.”

“Yours,” Jon groans without being asked, his lashes fluttering as he forces himself to meet Theon’s eyes, dizzy and pliant. “Always…”

The bite on his neck is angry and red, darkening against Jon’s tender white skin before Theon’s eyes. Darker already than the bruise on his arm ever was. It stokes the possessive fire in his gut, and Theon licks his lips.

“More,” Jon whispers, and it’s like a hot lance in Theon’s chest. "Again a— again, Theon. Again—.”

“ _Fuck._ ” Theon can feel his pulse quickening, head spinning as he throws himself forward and bites down again.

Jon reacts instantly this time, crying out in what sounds only like pain, but a hand flies up to snatch a fistful of Theon’s hair before he can pull away, keeping him there. Keeping him right against his throat. Blood pounding in his ears, Theon only releases him to bite down again, desperate suddenly to litter his perfect skin with scars, bruises, bitemarks. No one else will want him, if Theon tears him apart. 

It would be so easy, Theon thinks wildly, to kill Jon, too. Holding him as he is now. He’s such a fragile, trusting thing. 

Theon already feels as if he’s dying, himself.

Groaning in astonishment, Jon comes untouched. Hot and sudden against Theon’s stomach, ripping him back from whatever detached place his mind had gone. 

“Oh, gods. _Oh, Jon—_ ” 

Theon is nearly blind with it as he spills into Jon’s body, vision tunneling white and sound faded as he feels Jon surge against him. Shaking, Theon clings to him, needing desperately to feel the life in him. The erratic pump of his heartbeat, the loud rush of his breathing in Theon’s ear.

He’s perfect. He’s so perfect, and Theon almost lost him.

“Jon —” 

Theon’s voice is so hoarse he barely hears himself. It doesn’t matter. Jon grasps helplessly for him, pulling him hungrily into a kiss, still so starved for it. Theon melts, the trembling hands holding him still, the pulse in his wrists that Theon can feel shivering against his skin. He is perfectly, vibrantly _alive_ , and Theon can only be swept into it. 

So swept is he, that Theon cannot save himself when his knees wobble and give in. The strength leeches out of him and both he and Jon fall, collapse on the floor in a heap. Jon groans as they come apart, but otherwise he doesn’t react, slumping back against the bottom of the door. For a moment, they only face each other in silence, Jon holding tight to Theon, his bare legs bent on either side of him, splayed open, curls falling into his face. 

Wrecked and besotten, that is always how Jon looks right after. Like a ravished woman, sated and pleased in ways she did not even know how to want. 

Theon’s eyes fall on Jon’s ravaged throat. The bitemarks are turning redder by the minute, purpling as they start to bruise. Three overlapping rings, indented by the shape of Theon’s teeth. They stand out boldly against Jon’s pale northern skin. Absently, Theon runs his thumb over the bitemarks, marvelling stupidly when they remain.

Half-hearted and dazed, Jon feebly swats at Theon’s hand. “Leave it.”

“Someone will see,” says Theon.

“I don’t care,” Jon pants, “let them see.”

Theon exhales, half a gasp, half a chuckle. He will do it, too, Theon knows. In the morning Jon will venture down the steps to claim their horses, his scarf undone and his collar of his cloak open, showing anyone who dare look. All Stark defiance, daring onlookers to say anything.

The thought makes Theon swell with fondness. 

They lapse into silence again. Theon continues to stroke the tender red marks on the line of Jon’s throat. His pulse flutters under Theon’s fingertips. After a moment, Theon tips Jon’s jaw, forcing Jon to meet his gaze. When he does, his eyes are bright and shining, staring right through Theon as if he’s made of glass.

“Look at me, Jon, that’s it,” Theon swallows, waiting for Jon’s eyes to focus. “You’re alright?”

Jon nods, his breathing shallow. Numbly, Theon mirrors him. 

“Come on,” Theon purrs against the bruise on his throat. He gets to his feet before stooping to pull Jon off the floor. “Let’s get cleaned up and get to bed.”

Jon doesn’t respond, arms wrapped tight around Theon’s neck. He’s easy to carry. Light. Jon doesn’t even try to move until Theon sets him down on the bed, when he slowly releases Theon’s neck. Dully, Jon watches him as Theon wets a cloth in their basin and returns to his side. Jon is still trembling with the aftershocks, but so is Theon, as he gently dabs at the sweat and tears on Jon’s face.

“There you are,” Theon says, more to himself than anything as he moves down Jon’s body, wiping him clean. It takes more work to clean the cooling seed beginning to stick to Jon’s thighs, and the cloth drags rough against his skin. Finally, Jon reacts, blinking down at Theon’s hands. 

“Theon?”

His voice is soft, reserved and distant, and Theon feels a knot of panic pull in his gut as he looks up at Jon’s face.

“You’re mine, too,” Jon says then, words unwavering, even as his voice does. His eyes are shining, and he swallows thickly. “I’ll — I’ll protect you as well. From... from everything. Everything that I can. You know that, don’t you?”

And gods, he means it. Just as he means everything else he’s ever said. He means it with every inch that he is. Jon looks down at Theon as if ready to die for him. Theon has never been looked at that way, not by anyone. It makes his eyes water as he turns away, breaking the gaze. It’s suddenly very hard to breathe.

“Aye,” he forces out, “you’ve said. I know, Jon.”

Discarding the rag on the floor, Theon crawls onto the bed beside him. Grunting, he tugs off his riding leathers and leaves them in heap on the floor beside the dirty rag. He hesitates before pulling off his woollen tunic as well, tugging it over Jon’s head.

When Jon looks at him curiously, Theon only shrugs. “Don’t get cold laying next to you.”

Jon smiles, and Theon pulls him close, dragging the shabby rabbit pelts and sheepskins over the two of them. Humming, Jon curls tight against his chest, and Theon smiles, remembering their nights together at the inn in winter town. It was simpler then. Looking back now, their worries had been so trivial. Part of Theon wishes he could go back, that the two of them could have stayed forever in that cold little room, entwined together so tightly that they could almost be the same person.

Brushing Jon’s hair from his eyes, Theon leans forward and kisses him, first his mouth and then peppering them over his face, soft and gentle and everything Jon deserves.

“I trust you, Jon,” Theon says again, because it makes Jon happy to hear.

Jon smiles, eyelids drooping as he nuzzles into Theon’s throat. The air around them is so warm and thick it’s like a blanket, wrapped over them along with the pelts. Holding Jon close, Theon presses kisses along Jon’s neck, covering the bites he left from before, still red and hot to the touch on his flawless skin. Jon makes a sleepy sound as Theon’s lips drag over the marks he left, content and soft.

“I know you’ll protect me,” Theon whispers in his ear, “just as I’ll — I’ll protect you. Always.”

There is no answer from Jon. Only nestles tightly against Theon’s body. A moment later, Theon hears his quiet snore against his chest, heartbeat surely still thundering against his ear. Theon presses another kiss to his face, his neck, his shoulder, rocking Jon gently against himself as his own exhaustion takes him as well.


	21. Jon

They’re four days ride from the fork of the White Knife when the sky clouds over and great banks of grey fog roll along the riverbanks. South of the rapids, the river has grown wide and slow and the floodplain extends nearly a mile on either side, overgrown with tall grass and saplings but few taller, older trees. Beyond the brambles of the floodplain there are thicker woods, Jon knows, but they’re lost through a fog so dense the sun itself is nearly hidden. The sky is wide overhead, opaque, close, the colour of pewter. He and Theon are little more than silhouettes at any distance greater than an arm’s length. Vapour wisps skim along the glassy surface of the river as they ride alongside it, dark and still like the black pool in the Winterfell godswood. The river cannot be more than twenty yards wide and yet the far bank is gauzy and veiled by reams of white fog. Perhaps this fog foretells rain, like it does in Winterfell, but so far Jon is pleased that rain has held off. The horses are not minded by the eerie fog, and they seem to make good time, though judging the hour is hard with the sun so obscured.

The river is much busier with folk south of the fork. Long, narrow boats each steered by a man with a long quant pole zip up and down the currents carrying goods and passengers between villages. Farmsteads crowd in on the fertile soil of the floodplain, and they often encounter cattle and sheep grazing on the long grasses by the waters. They’ve pilfered from wicker fishing weirs that dot the riverbanks, taking half a dozen fat trout at a time, and they haven’t gone hungry in nearly a week.

They’ve passed more than an hour in silence when Theon pulls up his horse. Mounted in the mist, he looks like some legendary huntsman from history, with his bow slung over his shoulder and his hood up. Silent, he tilts his head back, as if listening for something, but Jon can’t imagine what. He pulls up his mount alongside Theon’s, dew from the fog collecting on the wool of his cloak.

“What is it?” Jon asks, his own voice feeling far too loud in the quiet of the fog.

“Can you smell that?” replies Theon.

“Smell?”

“On the air. Do you smell it?”

Inhaling, Jon isn’t sure what he’s meant to notice. He closes his eyes, tries to focus. The air is damp with mist and dew but the usual familiar scents of the river and smokestacks of nearby settlements are absent. For the first time in more than a fortnight, the landscape reminds him of the highlands of the wolfwood near Winterfell, despite the wooded plain being sparse and distant from the water. The earthy, sweet scent of decaying vegetation, dark black humus and moss remind him of home. 

There is something else on the air, though. Something not quite familiar. A crisp, briny sort of scent. Like vinegar or sour, unaged ale. Organic and vegetal. It’s strong, but not unpleasant. 

Opening his eyes, Jon turns back to Theon. “What is that?”

Theon looks to him, a naked, joyful smile on his face. “The sea.”

 _The sea._ Jon had asked his father about the sea, once, when he was still a boy, young enough to still sit on his father’s knee. At least that is how he remembers it. Maester Luwin had been tutoring him in maps and geography and when Jon had asked about the line of ink that indicated the land’s end, the old maester had told him it was the ocean. Water that went on and on as far as a man could see. 

Jon could not imagine it, water that large, so he had gone to ask his father, who he knew had been to the sea. 

_”Does it truly go on forever?” he’d asked, legs swinging off his father’s knee._

_Father had smiled. “No, not forever. But it goes farther than a man can see. All the way to the horizon, there is nothing but water.”_

_Quietly, Jon had considered that. There hasn’t been a time that he had tried to look farther than he could see, he thought. Even from the high towers of the castle, looking far over the purple heather of the moors, something always ends the view before his eye, be it hills, or clouds, or the dense canopy of the wolfswood. He could not imagine water so expansive that it ranged farther than his eye could reach._

_“But it ends?” ventured Jon, hoping to impress._

_“Yes, it ends, Jon.”_

Jon breathes in once again, intent on committing that scent to memory. He wants to know it by heart, to have it be as familiar as his own name, if it brings such a look of elation to Theon’s face.

That night, they make camp outside again. The air is warmer than it was near a week ago, and the river is too busy for thieves. Theon says he wants to save the coin, but Jon is certain the smell of the sea has something to do with it as well. The more Jon smells it, the more he enjoys it. It’s similar, he decides with a sense of pride, to the sharp scent that clings to Theon. He had been right, after all these years, that the ocean never left Theon’s skin.

“Are you cold?” Theon asks as Jon burrows into him.

Jon shakes his head. 

“Aye,” Theon mutters sleepily, fingers brushing his cheek, “you never are, are you?”

Jon’s not sure what he means by that. Curious, he asks, “Are _you_ cold?”

Theon shakes his head, bowing to press a drowsy kiss against Jon’s throat. “You’re so warm, Jon. Always are. Like — like a campfire.” He yawns, breath hot against Jon’s neck as he nuzzles closer. “Always knew I’d barely need for any quilt, sleeping beside you.”

Jon blinks. It takes a moment for him to process the words Theon has said. “Always?” 

Theon doesn’t respond. His breathing has fallen even against Jon’s skin, and as Jon waits for an answer, he hears the quiet rhythm of Theon’s quiet snore. Shifting to catch a glimpse of him in the starlight, Theon shifts. If he wakes at all, it’s not enough to open his eyes. Jon smiles at him, the softness in his face.

“Always,” Jon repeats, more to himself than anything. 

He presses a kiss to Theon’s cheek and curls back into his arms to drift off to sleep on the riverbank under the stars.

At dawn, there is still a low mist over the river. Herons call, mournful and stirring through the opaque brume, that wake them with the cresting sun. Pale, cornsilk-coloured light spills over the treetops, down from the sky in tumbling rays, filtering through the fogbanks, catching the edges of vapor in flashing gold. Off in the distant meadows, does graze. Songbirds warble in the thicket nearby. The whole glen around them appears to glow.

For a while, Jon sits among their small campsite in silence, grass folded beneath their bedding, watching the dawn break over the land. At his knee, Theon stirs on the saddle blankets, huffs, not asleep but not quite awake yet, either. Dew glistens in his hair, and Jon reaches to brush it away. The peace of the moment makes his heart swell. 

Jon retrieves a small meal for the both of them before waking Theon with a kiss on his temple. Grumbling, Theon sits up and scarfs down the offered bread and honey. They rinse their faces with river water before beginning the day’s ride.

They will gain the shore today, Theon says, and then the city of White Harbour an hour or so after. They are riding down the western bank of the White Knife, and the walls of the city encircle a hill on the eastern bank. There is a wide sprawl of shack towns that straddles both sides of the river plain outside the city walls and many chain ferries and punts that will see them across the waters. 

They had not given much thought to their final destination across the Narrow Sea. To Jon, where they ended up had paled in importance to surviving the journey to White Harbour, but now that they are nearing the city, the decision of what comes after is vital.

Braavos is the closest. Seven days of sailing from White Harbour with fair winds. That is the most apparent route. The northernmost of the nine Free Cities, but still a lower latitude that all of the North. A city clustered together on a hundred small islands nestled with a shallow lagoon, Jon recalls from his lessons with Maester Luwin, linked by arched stone bridges and pole barges. A city built on water. Sections were flooded or submerged, but the Braavosi refused to abandon their canals and forced back the ocean with a ramshackle warren of dykes, dams, and aquifers, that grew and grew each year. 

Most famous among landmarks, the gargantuan Titan of Braavos towers over the lagoon and city astride two islands, guarding the harbour entrance. A bronze, helmed colossus, hoisting aloft a broken sword: that is what the texts of his lessons had described, standing more than triple the height of the tallest drum tower of Winterfell. Though he tried, Jon could not imagine such a scale.

Tens of thousands of people populated Braavos and thousands more transient merchants and sailors came and went by the day. The Braavosi were traders, primarily, bankers and shippers, moving goods and wares from one end of the world to the other. Green nectar wines and Myrish lace, carpets and tapestries from Norvos, ivory and whale bone from the northern coastline near Ib, gemstones, pepper, cinnamon, nameless spices, horses and cattle, salt, powdered indigo from the Summer Isles, lumber of all exoticities: bloodwood, weirwood, blue mahoe and pink ivory, snow bear pelts from beyond the Wall and striped zorse hides from the steppes of Essos, polished mirrors from the Reach and precious metals from the Westerlands. Everything the world had to offer passed through Braavos on its way to elsewhere. 

And this trade had made Braavos a rich state, Jon knew, the wealthiest among the Free Cities. Work was plentiful, it must be. They might find work as haulers, as sailors, as guardsmen, as sellswords, as scribes. It would not be easy work, but if they proved their mettle to their patrons, they might gain a foothold in the city.

There are no slaves in Braavos, and the Sealord does not permit their trade to occur in the city or even pass through the harbour. Jon is grateful for that, though he does not entirely understand why. It would be too foreign, perhaps, to make home in a slave city, walking the street and seeing men, women, and children trailing after their masters. Did all slaves wear chains? Do they clink as they go about like the maesters’ chains do? Jon knows some places in the east tattoo the faces of slaves, but he cannot remember where. He hopes he may not ever find out.

At least they will not be slaves in Braavos, and they will need not compete with slave labour for work. The thought occurs to Jon, coldly, as a relief. But it is true. Why would a man pay to have his cargo hauled or his home guarded when there were ample hands who must do it for free? Still, the cruelty of the thought leaves Jon a little sick at heart.

Slavery was profane to the old gods, one of the only stances they took on the moral lives of men.

But there will be no weirwood trees in Braavos, it occurs to him, and the thought saddens him more than expected. Godswoods in the south, where weirwoods were all felled centuries ago, use other sorts of trees for heart trees sometimes, oaks and elms, but Jon doubt there is even such thing as a godswood across the Narrow Sea. The old gods are not known there. The gods there are ancient and many, from before Old Valyria, gods of war and conquest, dark sorceries, blood, and sacrifice. Jon shudders. He never considered himself particularly devout but leaving the old gods behind almost brings a tear to his eye. It hadn’t truly occurred to him that he was abandoning not just his house, his family, but all the North, its lands, its laws, its customs, its faith. The only that Jon has ever known. 

Jon had grown up thinking the south was strange and different enough. How different the lands beyond the Seven Kingdoms will be! To think Jon ever thought the south distant and foreign. They have not even left the North yet, and he feels disappointed in his own naivete. 

The saline taste in the air grows denser, rising and falling with the gusts of the breeze. As they approach the coast the land opens up. The terrain dips and valleys, a gradual but constant downward slope. At their side, the river only grows slower, wider, curving and looping in long meanders. They bypass these for the most part, keeping the river within sight, the open corridor of the sky visible through the leafy boughs of the treetops.

Past midday, the horses start to whicker and stray, growing agitated as they approach the sea.

So too does Theon. He shifts in his saddle, stretching his legs in the stirrups, fussing with the straps of his cloak, his hair. He and his mount both fidget in equal amounts as the coast grows closer. Jon has to suppress a chuckle, knowing Theon would not appreciate being laughed at, no matter how affectionately.

“How close, do you reckon?” Jon tries instead.

Theon’s eyes snap to him, like he’d forgotten Jon was there at all. “Well, not long now, with how the river is. It’s been a year or so since I last made the journey, but once we hear the sea, it’ll be within the hour.” Theon only grins. “When you can hear the waves breaking on the shore, washing up the sand, and the gulls calling through the salt air, then we are close, and you will see it: the wide empty field of the ocean.”

He sounds downright wistful and it makes Jon sit up a little straighter in the saddle. Theon does not have a poetic mind but he talks of the sea like a lost lover or mythic hero. Always guarded with his heart, Theon is, more guarded than even Jon, but what concerns the sea is only raw yearning that Theon can’t or won’t contain. 

The sky grows grey and clouded by the late afternoon, and the hour grows hard to determine as the sun is obscured behind a dark curtain of cloud. The air stirs with a strong, chilly breeze that churns the canopy over their heads. The scent of brine is carried strong on the wind. Jon’s heart beats a little harder in his chest.

The forest thins out. The land gets more sparsely treed and more carpeted in thickets and open meadows. Slate grey sky opens above them.

It is Theon who catches the first sight of the sea, of course. He urges his horse ahead to the crest of a hillock they are descending, where only a few dry, gnarled cedar saplings cling. From just down the slope Jon can only see Theon mounted on his horse against the gauzy white sky and nothing beyond.

“Jon!” he calls, “Jon, come and see!”

When Jon brings his mount to the soft crest of the ridge, he is confronted by the grand sight of the river valley, miles wide, forested hills hemmed in on both sides, rolling downward. And between them, a distant wedge of grey water that extends to the horizon. A rippling, choppy curtain that goes beyond what the eye can see.

Beside him, Theon is grinning like a child. His eyes crinkle, face split in a wide smile. The breeze toys with his hair as he beams. Jon swears he can see tears forming in the corners of Theon’s green eyes.

“There, can you see?” Theon never looks away from the sea on the horizon. “There, there it is. The sea!”

But Jon is watching only him. Can’t look away from the expression on Theon’s face, so open and exhilarated, unguarded in his awe of the sight before him. Jon’s heart brims. He can’t help but smile himself. The scent is stronger than ever, mineraly and pungent, but Jon has never enjoyed anything more.

“We’ll make the shore by the afternoon,” he says, judging the remaining miles between them and the ocean. “And from there the city will be within sight on the far side of the river.”

Theon nods, but adds nothing. The wind whips about them, carrying the smell of the ocean, the hills, the wood, combing through their hair, their clothes. They remain for a few moments in silence, before at last, Theon turns his horse back onto the path, and they descend along the river bank to the ocean.

It is only an hour or two more before they gain the beach. The forest is thick and lush along the rich soil of the riverbanks, and only once the earth grows sandy and poor as they approach the shore do the trees become stunted and sparse, and then, suddenly, there is the growing sound of waves breaking on the sand, and the undergrowth opens to reveal the wide shoreline of the sea, vast and empty where for weeks there has been a canopy of forest, hemmed in on all sides. 

Before them a backshore of dunegrass forms a belt between the forest and the sand, and beyond that sprawls the ocean, grey and rough in the overcast weather, rolling on and on to the horizon line. It catches Jon’s off guard, the sight of the wide open sea, and he is stunned quiet.

Beside him, Theon dismounts from his horse. Jon does the same. Eyes fixed to the water before him, Theon does not say a word, only stares.

They pick their way over the dunegrass, leading their horses by the rein. Jon glances to Theon, frequently, gauging what sort of silence has overtaken him.

At length, Theon breaks out to a sprint. His long legs carrying him over smooth grey sands, weed-strewn and scattered with berms of pebbles. Water pools in the bootprints he leaves behind. 

Despite himself, Jon represses a jolt of panic at seeing him take off. Leading both horses down the low, grassy dunes, he watches Theon jog to a slow as he nears the surf. The sound of the waves is louder than Jon expected. Even these gentle swells washing up and down the shore is a greater sound than the river rapids or falls had been. 

The horses are wary of the cushiony, sinking surface of the sand at first, but after an encouraging tug of the reins, they take up a walk alongside Jon. He leads them after Theon’s trail of bootprints. 

Ahead, Theon is at a standstill, facing the sea. His overgrown hair whips in the breeze, wet sand clinging to the fur trim of his billowing cloak. He sinks to his knees.

When Jon and the horses draw near, Theon does not acknowledge them. He stares only ahead, unmoved. For a moment, Jon isn’t sure he notices them at all, but before he takes another step, Theon throws a hand out to keep him back. He says nothing, and neither does Jon. 

Without knowing precisely what, Jon is aware of something profound occuring that does not involve him. He holds the horses back and allows Theon his private reunion.

With gulls wheeling over head, Theon stands again, sand sticking to the knees of his clothes. He turns and, taking Jon’s face in both hands, kisses him soundly, here on the open shore, where anyone might see. A yelp stifles in Jon’s throat. Distantly, he’s aware that he drops the reins, and his legs turn watery. Blatant in the light of day, Theon sweeps him up, steals the air right from his lungs, rash and bold as he always is. Jon yields to his touch, well-practiced at it by now. When Theon pulls away at last, tears are unshed in his eyes. 

“Gods, Jon, you did it,” he gasps, “you did it. You brought me back to the sea.”

Speechless, Jon leans forward and kisses him again. The air blows their hair wild, cold and salty against Jon’s skin, but Theon keens against him, surging against the kiss like the waves against the shore behind him. Jon’s knees weaken; he loses his footing in the uneven beach, and Theon pitches him backward, until they both hit the sand.

The horses whinny and snort, Theon’s mare taking a gruff step back from the commotion.

“ _Theon —_ ”

It’s meant to scold him, embarrassed and shy to be faced with such unabashed affection where anyone could wander along and see them. But Theon doesn’t relent, trailing firm kisses down Jon’s jaw, his neck, to the edge of his fur collar and the scarf at his throat. 

“I’m home,” Theon murmurs, his voice shaking. “You did it, I’m home.”

Something tight wraps around Jon’s heart, and he gasps. He can feel Theon shaking, and reaches calmly for his hands.

“Theon,” he tries again, “Theon, we have to make it to the city by nightfall. Find passage on the next — the next ship.”

“Aye, I know, I know,” Theon answers, pressing a kiss to Jon’s temple before pulling back to look him in the eye. “We — we must speak to a harbourmaster or find a captain before — before dusk. Find out when...” Theon stops talking and laughs, his eyes brightening. “You’re covered in sand.”

He’s grinning so wide Jon is somewhat stunned to look at him. He’s never seen such distinct, unvarnished glee in Theon’s smile before. He’s beaming. 

Unable to help himself, Jon smiles back, and Theon grabs the front of his cloak to pull him into another kiss.

He is free, Jon realizes. For the first time since he was just a boy, Theon Greyjoy is entirely a free man. For Jon, leaving the castle had brought him independence, adventure. Not insignificant, but not the same. Winterfell had been the only home Jon has ever known, but that was not true for Theon. To him, Winterfell had been as much a prison as it was a haven. And now the last of his remaining fear is falling away, and he’s positively giddy. Jon stares back at him in awe. It was worth it, Jon knows that for certain now. It was worth it to break faith with his family, to live as an outlaw. He’s never been more sure of anything in his life than this moment. Everything they’ve been through since word of Euron Greyjoy reached Winterfell is worth it, for what Theon feels now.

Theon sits back on his heels, turning to look at the crashing waves for a moment before turning back to Jon. 

Flustered, Jon sits up from the sand, brushing the tiny flecks from his doublet, scrubbing it from his black hair. He can feel Theon watching him, and glances up, oddly shy.

“Jon.” Theon says his name as if it means something deeper. “Jon, we…”

He never finishes his thought. Trailing off, his words seem carried away by the wind. Theon turns away and wipes at his eyes as he looks back to the grey sea. Jon watches, wanting to ask him what he’s thinking, what he’d wanted to say, but the moment between them seems too delicate, and Jon lets it fade away to nothing.

Instead, Jon tells him, “I’ve prayed for this.”

That seems to stun Theon, and he blinks. “What?”

“To — to run away with you, like this. I prayed to the old gods to grant me something like this.”

The look of shock doesn’t ease from Theon’s expression. It takes a moment for him to finally smile, sly and knowing again. His voice wavers when he asks, “Is that what it was? Robb told me that the two of you spoke in the godswood, after I’d been imprisoned. That you spent a lot of time there. Is that what you were asking of your holy tree, then?”

Theon’s horse snorts again, as if mocking Jon’s tender heart as well. 

Before Jon can respond, Theon adds, “I knew this had been your plan all along. You’re a terrible liar, Snow. You and your brother, both. All that Stark honour makes for miserable deceivers.”

“No, not then,” Jon admits shyly, barely loud enough to talk over Theon’s brash voice. He wonders abruptly if he should have said anything at all. But then he remembers their night under the stars. _Always._ Swallowing, he adds, “Long before that, when I was still a boy, I mean. I’ve — I’ve wanted… I don’t believe I was any older than ten, when I asked the gods for this.”

The smile on Theon’s face drops. For a moment, Jon thinks he may have said something wrong. He bites his lip, uncertain, but before he can say anything further, Theon shuffles forward on his knees, and presses his forehead against Jon’s.

That’s all it is at first, their foreheads touching as they breathe each other’s air. But then Theon kisses him again, different than it had been just a moment ago. Before had been a giddy sort of passion; unbridled excitement. Now, Jon is swept up in the tenderness of it, gentle and careful in a way that swoops hard in Jon’s gut. 

When they break apart, Theon pushes to his feet and offers Jon his hand to help him up. As Jon stands, Theon doesn’t pull away, and Jon stares down at their joined hands, feeling timid as a maid. Theon still has nothing to say, but presses a kiss to Jon’s temple and smiles at him, reaching up to tousle Jon’s hair. A torrent of sand rains down in front of his eyes, and he whips his head side-to-side to shake out the rest. 

When Jon meets his eyes again, Theon’s mouth is open as if ready to speak, but he only holds Jon’s gaze a moment before he starts back through the sand. He takes the reins of the horses in his free hand, and they walk along the shore in silence.


	22. Theon

Theon remembers the first time he saw a dead man. Actually, it was many dead men, in the clifftop yard of the castle of Pyke. He, his sister, and his mother had been called down from their sanctuary in the Bloody Keep to witness the surrender of their home to King Robert. The curtain walls that guarded their castle from the headland side had been smashed by King Robert’s siege engines and bodies of slain ironborn rebels lay strewn in the rubble, buried under the ancient lichen-covered debris The dead had frightened and fascinated Theon. He had expected it to look like sleeping, but it wasn’t. Corpses lay stiller, flatter than sleeping men, all their blood and fat and flesh drooping on their frames toward the earth, like deep sea fish brought up on land. The stench had been overpowering, even next to the sea: the rusting, briney scent of blood and thick smoke. Theon had tried to bury his face in the hem of his mother’s gown. Maron had been fighting down there, but Theon never did see his brother’s body. Instead, his poor mother had stepped out into the yard, saw the wreckage of her home, and began to wail. 

Theon was twelve when he first accompanied Lord Stark to an execution. He was only there to witness, had not yet been trusted with the duty of bearing the weapon called Ice, but Lady Catelyn had refused to let the ten-year-old Robb accompany his father, and so the older Theon went. He does not remember the condemned man’s name, nor what his crime was. Perhaps desertion was his only trespass. What he does remember was how quick it was, so quick it was over before he had the chance to ready himself. Red arterial blood gushing from the man’s severed neck, the absurd sight of a body looked without a head, these odd things had settled with him. Theon had been proud of himself for not flinching, but when supper came that night and his plate was laid in front of him, he had gagged against his hand and went to bed without eating.

At fourteen, Theon was fit to bear the Valyrian steel greatsword Ice for Lord Stark to executions on the moor. It was so large he had needed to carry it in both arms, tilted slightly so that the point cleared the ground when he walked. The sword had stood taller than he did and it would not do to let the heirloom drag across the mud. The blade’s heavy scabbard was wrapped in a direwolf pelt, hunted north of the Wall generations ago, he was told. Fur so thick and luxuriant, Theon could hardly detect the rigid edge of the Valyrian steel blade contained within. 

Yet when the Stark guardsmen marched the deserter to the block, Lord Stark had pulled the greatsword free with a two-handed grip as if it weighed nothing at all. Swung it high overhead and brought it down on the deserter’s neck without hesitation.

The first time Lord Stark’s sons had witnessed their father carry out the king’s justice, Theon had borne Ice in both arms, watched impassively as the huge blade cleaved the man’s head from his shoulders.

Jon had flinched and turned away, hiding his face in his gloved hands. Disappointment had crossed over Lord Stark’s face, that solemn, distasteful combination of pity and frustration Theon had grown to loathe with all his heart. Once you fell from Lord Stark’s esteem, it was like being cast out in the bleakest cold. Jon had sulked for weeks after that. 

Familiarity with the act did not lessen Theon’s distaste to it. He had decided then that when he was Lord of the Iron Islands, he would employ an executioner like most lords do.

Killing was a rite of passage amongst his people. To slay an enemy, to claim another’s life as yours, it was the most ruthless claim a man could stake. But Theon had been reared away from the Iron Islands in a time of peace, and knew that it might be years before he had cause to put a man to death, whether as a liege lord or on the field of battle. That had irritated him, somewhat, the thought that he be forestalled glory that he was owed. But having witnessed many executions, he had not been overly upset at the thought of being spared the task. Something lords did not stoop to perform.

But when he had returned through the woods to the riverside where those thieves had Jon, Theon had not hesitated. His bow, that had already sunk so many arrows into targets and hunted game, fired two shafts into their filthy necks. 

When their bodies had sunk to the forest floor, darted with fletchings, Theon had felt nothing short of victory. Glee. Those two toothless vermin gurgling out their lifesblood into the dirt had satisfied him like few other things ever had. Such was what they earned for threatening Jon’s life. For touching him. For hurting him.

Theon was a killer from that moment on, and he did not mind. Liked it, maybe even loved it. Not in a vainglorious heroic way that the knights in the songs did when they slew their foes in poetic rhyme. Nor in the solumn, dutiful way Lord Stark meted out justice in protection of the realm. Instead, Theon had been overcome with a fearsome sort of satisfaction at the killing. It had been such a small act, so easy to do, to fire an arrow as he had done a thousand times before. Two dead thieves in the woods that no one would miss. Left to be eaten by scavengers and worms. 

But to Theon, there could be no greater act of loyalty, of devotion. He would put arrows in the hearts of every man who tried to hurt Jon. 

For after all, Theon is ironborn. And Jon is _his._ And the ironborn take what is theirs.

That joy glows in him as they ride along the shore to White Harbour. The beach is mostly pebbly, with infrequent pocket berms of grey sands, and Theon and Jon ride up in the higher backshore covered in dune grass as tall as their horse’s bellies. 

In Theon’s ear, the soft roaring of the waves was all he could listen to. He and Jon do not speak as they ride on, the churning of the tides and the seabirds calling overhead belaying the silence. An offshore breeze sweeps out to sea, rippling through the grass, billowing their cloaks and toying at their overgrown hair and Theon is enraptured. 

Had he ever really forgotten? The sight of the wide open ocean? He thinks he might have. The sight of it takes his breath away now. 

Seafoam washes up through the pebbled shore, wave after wave, crashing and retreating in a slow onward wash. The sky overhead is opaque and grey, the colour of pewter, and the sea beneath dark and green-grey and as wide as the horizon. Theon cannot take his eyes off of it, watching the water over his shoulder as his horse marches on.

He has travelled to White Harbour before, with Lord Stark, attending to the matters of Warden of the North in the North’s largest city. And coming to the sea then had felt like treachery, like a test. Theon had resolved to ignore the feeling. In the lavish court of the Manderlys, lords of White Harbour, Theon would turn away from the windows, drink his fill and play dice with the men, grope serving girls, venture out only at night to the brothel by Old Fishfoot, the merman statue that rested atop a fountain in the city square. He never ventured down to the harbour, never dallied watching the ships come and go. What would have been the point of it? Why tempt himself with what he could not have?

But now there is no return journey. Now he is leaving, setting out across the sea. _They_ are leaving, together. Theon cannot help but stare. 

An hour’s ride from where they first reached the shore and the earliest sight they catch of White Harbour is the smoke. Dozens and hundreds of chimneys sending gauzy, dark smoke into the sky from behind a hillside, diffusing the higher up it drifts, like ink in water. 

As they round a bay of grey sand, the great double harbour of the city is revealed, the whitewashed curtain walls extending into the sea to enclose the inner portion of the harbour on both sides like the arms of a mother, guarding the ships within. The estuary plain of the White Knife is low and flat as they approach, and from the land the city clings high on the coastal hillside, white and shining, even beneath the overcast sky. High on the hilltop, within the city walls, Theon can spot the crowning towers of the New Castle and the high white dome of the Sept of the Snows.

In the waters, far out from the mouth of the harbour, is the Seal Rock, a lonely, towering sea stack of lichen-covered stone. Upon the top, ancient men had built a ringfort of stone, but now it is heavily fortified and lit with huge torches kept burning all through the day and night. 

Theon turns to face Jon, smiling, almost giddy. They have made it.

They sell their horses at the first stable inside the city gates. The horsemaster swindles them, Theon knows it, but it is not safe to haggle. Two fine-bred palfreys of Lord Eddard Stark’s stable are worth double the five gold dragons that the man agrees to, but pursuing the point would allow for questions as to how two young lads came to be in possession of such valuable animals, so Theon bites his tongue and swallows the loss. They sell their saddles and other tack as well, for hardly anything more, but the gear will be more trouble than it’s worth to hoist around on a ship. 

And besides, they’ll not have need of horses for some time.

The streets and alleys of the city are wide enough for two carts to pass each other by for the most part, though the buildings are tall, in tight rows with steep gables and chimney stacks that make the streets seem dark and narrow. At least that it how it seems until they come to the main square, an open, cobbled yard with a round fountain in the centre surmounted by a green copper statue of a bearded merman. The creature stands high above the square, fountain water foaming over his fins and scales, surveying the vendor stalls and alehouses that line his court. Fishfoot Yard, they call it, and the weathered merling is Old Fishfoot himself, green and white with lichen and age, but still an impressive sight.

From the square, a wide street of steps winds down to the harbour in one direction and up the hill to the New Castle in the other. Small, copper merling women turned green with age line the street on either side, cradling bowls of flaming oil.

They descend the street of stairs to the harbour and it is easily twice as busy as the streets, swarming with every sort of man, sailors, merchants, captains, cargo-haulers, wainwrights, fishmongers, and more, Northern, southern, Westerosi, Andal, Rhoynar, Essosi, and further beyond. The city walls are high and white with towers evenly spaced, that extend into the sea, dividing the wide outer harbour from the sheltered, deep inner harbour. By the Seal Gate of the outer harbour sprawls the fish market, a warren of wooden carts and stalls selling every type of catch the sea has to offer: whitefish, cod, mackerel, eels, clams, crabs, spiny urchins, kelp and seagrass, lobsters the size of large cats. Far out on the outer wharf, there is a crew of men hoisting the black, behemoth carcass of a whale upon a lofted beam rigging by its fluke. Dangling in the air from its tail, the whale is flensed of its blubber by two men wielding long, sharp knives affixed to poles. White and yellow reams of fat, black on one side with a rind of skin, are carved off in long, thick rolls, folded higher than a man stands on the planks of the deck bellow. A second crew of men carve the rolls of blubber into blocks, flensing off the skin, that are transported down the line to the nearby tryworks, huge iron vats cased on top a brick furnace, rendering the blubber into precious, golden oil.

They inquire at the harbourmaster’s office for passage on a ship to the Free Cities. The clerk of the harbourmaster, a bearded rough-faced man clad in a merling-patterned surcoat, peers over his massive ledger before sending them off to a berth where a two-masted ship is docked, bound for Braavos in four days’ time. And so their destination is decided.

The captain is a man from Oldtown, ferrying over a cargo of wine from the Arbor and returning with a shipment of Myrish lace. After being swindled when selling their horses, Theon is suspicious and prepared to haggle, but the captain offers them a fair rate, and a cabin to themselves besides. Not many passengers come or go to the Free Cities from the North, and the man is happy, it seems, to supplement his payment.

It isn’t hard to find an inn to take them, though Theon is still hesitant to spend much coin, and frowns as he counts out the coppers the inn woman asks for. They will need what they have left to keep themselves alive once they reach the Free Cities — Braavos, now, that much is certain, at least — before they find ways to earn a living on their own merits. The Braavosi are traders, Theon knows, all sorts of dealings are conducted in those canals. Both he and Jon are literate, and good fighters. They will easily find work, surely.

At the start of their journey, Theon remembers thinking he would’ve rather died starving in Lord Stark’s dungeon than work as a commoner. Remembers, holed up in his cell, clinging to his fancy garments and wondering how he could ever bear to part with them. The memories nearly makes him scoff, now. Somehow, it seems like a year since he and Jon fled from Winterfell. It marvels him, to realize how much he’s changed in so little time. No longer the spoiled, insecure brat he had been, even still while he was closed off in the dungeons under the Great Keep. The fine clothes are merely money to him, now, things to sell once they make home in Braavos. The fancy silks and Northern furs and tooled leather will all sell for a good price, there, and Theon has no need for such rich fabrics, any longer. It seems almost amusing to him, that he ever did.

Perhaps his garments would still hold the same importance, if not for Jon. Though looking back Theon cannot imagine this journey without him. How had he ever considered escaping Winterfell alone? He remembers at the time, furious that Lord Stark’s eldest sons would scheme behind his back, saddle him with Jon’s care in the midst of his escape for his life. He remembers thinking it would be impossible, with Jon at his side. How could he ever think such a thing? He would rather have died at Lord Stark’s hand just outside the gates than gone without Jon. 

They take up in the first inn they find. The keeper is a man about the age of Lord Stark, who smiles widely at the sight of them.

“Afternoon, lads,” he says kindly, when they come through the door and remove their hoods, “how might I be of service to you this fair evening?”

Shaky, Theon makes his way to the desk before answering, “A room, please. We’ll be here a few nights before setting off at sea.”

The innkeep is thrilled to hear it. He offers them two rooms, but Theon shakes his head. He feels a pathetic cloying at the idea of Jon taking another room, even if it would be one just beside him.

“We should only afford the one, I’m afraid — though a room with two beds would be well appreciated.”

It perhaps disappoints the innkeeper to hear they have little coin, but Theon is remise to come off too wealthy. They could still be traced back to this town, this inn. He does not want to stand out as memorable in any way. He thanks the man for their key, and leads Jon upstairs toward the boarding rooms.

Their room is cramped and chilled as they step inside, the wide window on the far wall left open to hide the smell of damp wood that permeates the floor and walls. As they first enter, Jon shivers, and Theon automatically reaches forward to rub his back through his cloak.

The two of them are quiet, a happy sort of silence settling over them. There is no further riding to be done at daybreak. Finally, Theon realizes with a sigh, they can sleep without worry, without the need to move quickly to their next place of rest. It isn’t long that they will stay here, but they have no need to be anywhere else until the ship to Braavos sets sail.

Theon can see the realization cross Jon’s face as well, watches his shoulders fall slack with a loud exhale. Smiling to himself, Theon lets his hand fall away. He thinks Jon may deserve this respite even more than he himself does. Everything he’s given up, everything he’s done — Theon marvels at the resilience within him. He doubts Jon even thinks on such a thing.

As if on cue, Jon drops the bag he’s holding and mutters, “It’s freezing in here.”

He doesn’t seem to expect Theon to respond, kneeling down and unpacking the blankets. Theon watches him with a smile. Quietly, Jon gathers the pelts and blankets in his arms and tosses them onto the straw mattress in the corner of the room.

Theon can see it, the weight of questions on Jon’s tongue as he bustles about. The way he hesitates as he walks, glances over at Theon with wide eyes. He’s desperate to know so many things, but is too afraid to ask. Perhaps, like Theon, he’s still realizing the importance of being here now. It’s a little baffling, to realize they’ve gotten so far.

So baffling, that Theon isn’t sure he’s ready to speak yet, either. He decides to wait for Jon to ask before offering answers, and shuts the door behind him before clearing the distance to the window to watch the view below.

It’s beautiful, the sight of the ocean. The roiling green and blue splashing against the pebbly shores. Theon feels a tug at his heart as he watches, a yearning excitement. He used to wonder, as he grew older, away from the islands, what it felt like to have a true home. Worried, after so many years, that he’d spent too far inland to truly belong anywhere. But he feels it now, as he looks out this musty window. Home has always been a view of the sea.

Silent, Theon turns away from the window and watches Jon drag the wolf pelt from Theon’s saddlebag and drape it over the narrow bed frame. It will be close, for the two of them to sleep together in the single bed; much like it had at the farmstead, before they reached the fork. Theon smiles, watching Jon tug gently at the corners of the furs, as if the four days they’ll stay here will be that of a lifetime — that this will be their home. Jon moves so methodically, as if they’ve lived this way for years now. It’s entrancing, to watch him. Foolishly, Theon catches himself fantasizing about how it will be from now on, the two of them together, watching Jon tuck at the corners of their bed years from now.

It had always been his plan, to return when Robb allowed it, but life so rarely grants such graces, and Theon is far too selfish, he knows, to wait. Jon has never looked more beautiful than he does now, eyes bright, the corner of his mouth twitched up into a faded smile. Despite everything that’s brought them here, he looks beautifully, stunningly happy.

Theon’s voice croaks, soft. “Jon…”

Jon looks up, smile widening. He’s such a sweet thing, even now, after everything they’ve been through, all the years that have passed since this started. 

Theon reaches out for him, half turned toward the window. “Come here, come see.”

Floorboards creak as Jon approaches behind him, slipping his arms around Theon’s chest, pulling them tight to one another. Theon leans back into the embrace, still watching the ships and the sea through the thrown-open window. There is a chill evening breeze growing, but Jon is so warm, always has been, and Theon finds himself so comforted by his hold that he could doze off standing upright. Against him, Jon rests his chin on Theon’s shoulder, following his gaze out to the ocean horizon, unfurling sails, crashing seafoam, wheeling gulls.

“We’ve made it, haven’t we?” murmurs Theon with a contented sigh. 

“No, we haven’t,” Jon amends fondly, “there is far to go, yet. We are not yet out of the North, not yet beyond the reach of the king. Do not let yourself count it as a triumph just yet.”

Always worrying, he is. Even though, Theon must concede Jon is right.

“Four days,” says Theon, swaying a little in Jon’s grip, “we can last in White Harbour for four days, surely.”

“We must be careful,” Jon replies. “You have been here before, and we are known to the Manderlys, their guardsmen, their city watch. It will not do to be blatant and make spectacles of ourselves, walking through the busy market squares or drinking in the pub.”

“Are you suggesting that we are to be confined to the bed for four days?” Theon teases, writhing against Jon’s chest a little. “A tall order, Snow, even for you. Will I at last find the limits of your appetite?”

Jon chuckles, despite his seriousness. “If that is what is required to keep you from falling stir-crazy.”

His arms squeeze Theon tight and Jon turns his face into Theon’s hair, nuzzling behind his ear. In response, Theon tilts his head back, chasing the touch, lets his eyes slip closed as he follows Jon’s breath by ear, the beat of his heart by touch.

They are nearly there, jokes aside. One voyage away from true escape. They could almost close their fingers around it. True to their natures, the anticipation leaves Theon near giddy and fills Jon only with dread.

“Theon,” starts Jon, breaking the silence cautiously, for he is always fretting about something, “is that still your want? To stay in the Free Cities?”

It seems an odd question. Theon takes a moment to respond.

“Where else would we go?”

Jon shifts, pressing his cheek to Theon’s shoulder before answering, “To Pyke. To rally to your sister. To claim your rightful place as Lord of the Iron Islands. I meant what I said, when I promised to go fight with you. I still would. Even if we had to lie or hide, I would pledge myself to your cause, if that is your want. I have already pledged myself to you, and where you go, I go.”

Theon considers it. He truly does, for a moment. A voyage to Pyke would be long, with many stops to put in at port, sailing south around the cape of Dorne, through the Stepstones, past the Arbor and Oldtown, back north up the coast of the Westerlands before at last reaching Ironman’s Bay. Maybe a month at sea. And even if they survived the voyage undetected, how would they find his sister Yara, or his mother’s house’s forces? In the interim, battles will have been fought and won and lost. Islands and holdfasts and ships will have changed hands. There may be a victor by the time they arrive, and if the victor be his uncle, Theon would have himself straight into his clutches. Himself and Jon. And then, supposing he even found his sister, what proof could he offer that he was indeed Theon Greyjoy? He had abandoned all his livery and seals and letters at Winterfell for their own safety. Might Yara not even recognize him? Theon cannot say, with surety, that he would recognize her.

Still, he pictures his mother. His poor mother. Safe with her family at Ten Towers, last he had word. It would be so sweet to see his mother again.

“No,” Theon answers at length. “No, that is not for me.”

Jon holds him a little tighter, “You are certain?”

“I am. My house condemned me as much as the king did. My sister nor House Harlaw sent no word pleading for my life or my return, did they not? Even the king himself did not know what to do with me. I was only an obstacle to each of their aims: the king, your father, my sister, even my uncle. None of them want to account for me. The ironborn least of all, it would seem. The ironborn follow only strength. I do not imagine they would flock to my claim simply because my father was lord. The lord that was crushed by the throne. If my sister is victorious, I imagine the king will wed her to an ally and install new lords of the Iron Islands. The Greyjoys have proved treacherous three times now. Only a fool would trust us again.”

“And if your uncle prevails?”

Theon shrugs against Jon’s jaw, “If my uncle claims the Seastone Chair, then the whole country will be at war again. Six kingdoms united will crush the Iron Islands, naval superiority or no. Like it was when it was my father rebelling, if the mainland armies gain a foothold on the Islands, then it is done. We cannot repel infantry forces. We simply don’t have the population.”

That is the sensible answer. The strategic answer. And it is all true. But he knows that is not what Jon is truly asking.

Jon, mercifully, knows not to press. Instead, he asks, “Will you ever go back?”

“One day, perhaps,” Theon considers, “when the fighting is done. When my uncle is dead. I would like to see Pyke again. I would — I would like to see my mother again.”

He hopes it as fiercely as anything, that they both might live to see each other once more.

Jon holds him, warm, steady, rocks him slowly.

“But later,” Theon concludes. “One journey at a time.”

Out the open window, the sky is turning pink with dusk. Low on the horizon, the clouds are lined with gold.

“Do you think me a coward for it?” Theon asks.

“Never,” answers Jon.

Theon does not believe him. It's foolish not to, he knows. Jon would never lie about such things. In all honesty, Theon doesn't even think him capable. As they sit in silence, he realizes that it isn't Jon he doesn't trust. He merely thinks himself a coward. Too craven to face his family. He's too shamed to say so, but Jon seems to notice, anyway.

"I prefer it this way," Jon admits after a moment. "Perhaps it is not a tale of heroes and bravery, that we desired as children, but it is still something of importance."

Theon doesn't say anything. Jon drops his arms from around Theon's body and shuffles to face him, leaning up against the sill of the window. He stares back at Theon pointedly, eyes sharp.

"We have done enough fighting, for now, Theon. I'm glad for an end to it."

Theon smiles at him. The words leave him feeling warm, and he presses his forehead to Jon's. "And here I thought you'd never grow tired of the fighting, Snow."

Jon chuckles, letting out a soft grunt as Theon hoists him up onto the windowsill to kiss his neck. 

"We're older, now," Jon reminds him, nesting a hand in Theon's hair. "I’m tired all the time."

Theon snorts, barely listening, as he nips lightly at Jon's throat.


	23. Theon

For some time, the two of them just sit curled together against the windowsill, not speaking, listening to the ocean birds and the noises of the city. The waves crash loudly outside their room’s window, squealing gulls piercing over the rooftops. It is a warm, comforting sort of noise, and surround them with a sense of peace. Jon’s arms are solid and strong, and Theon lets himself drift, let’s his mind go blank. Jon is watchful, and diligent. He will protect him. Theon can let himself slip, let himself be at ease.

Leaning against the casement of the window, Theon nuzzles Jon’s neck. Jon hums happily, cards his hand through Theon's ratted hair.

“Shall the two of us live the remainder of our lives as vagabonds, then?” Jon asks finally to break the silence, tugging one of Theon’s curls with a smile, “or will you let me cut this mane of yours when we find home on the shores of Braavos?”

Theon’s not sure why the idea makes him lightheaded, Jon poised over him with sheers to slice off all the cover he’s gained since their time in hiding. Smiling, he entertains the thought of doing the same for Jon, but he doesn’t not like the idea, and nests his hand in Jon’s hair.

“I’ll let you do whatever you wish to mine,” Theon admits finally, leaning forward to press a kiss on Jon’s throat as he holds his head back prone. “As long as you don’t make me do the same to yours.”

“You — you’ve always said my hair was stupid,” Jon finally manages with a huff, the last word blurring into a moan as Theon sinks his teeth just over Jon’s pulse.

“Aye,” Theon murmurs, his other hand reaching to tip back Jon’s chin. “I lied.”

He returns his attentions to Jon’s throat, mouthing at the tender skin, soft and milky on his throat; rough with dark, short beard growth along his chin and jaw. Jon all but croons. Theon knows by now what Jon likes, how to play his body like a harp, like a bowstring. Responsive, unabashed. It stings fondly at his heart to recall Jon’s first time, his second, his third. How shy he had been, unlearned, mistrustful of his own wants. No longer, though. Jon’s pleasure is as bold as the rest of him. And now that he has it, he pursues it with all the single-minded obstinacy of his ill-gotten Stark blood. He is father’s son, after all.

Theon kisses him again, slow, languid. As Jon likes. Jon wriggles on the windowsill, spreading his knees wide, pulling Theon closer. He smiles against the kiss when he reaches down between Theon’s legs and finds him hard.

“Now? Are you sure?” Jon murmurs into Theon’s mouth. “It’s not even midday. We could venture out, find something to eat, have a bath, a proper shave.”

“Later,” groans Theon.

Beneath his touch, Jon shudders a laugh. “Suppose I should be grateful you didn’t throw me down on the beach this morning.”

“I certainly considered it.”

“Just out in the open where anyone might see?”

“And why shouldn’t I?” He feels a thrill rock through Jon’s body just as it does his own. “There is no law against it in the North, I’m told. I would have you as I please.”

“That would not have stopped some brigand from making off with our horses while you groped me in the sand.”

Theon clenches his hand in Jon’s hair again, yanking his head back. “Growing a sense of humour, Snow?”

Eyes shut, the smile on Jon’s face is nigh on mischievous. “Nothing funnier than the sight of you rolling naked in the sand.”

“Such a mouth on you now,” Theon grumbles, raising his eyebrows. “I think I preferred you as a sullen virgin.”

“No, you didn’t.”

Theon huffs. Jon’s newfound cheekiness effects him in strange ways. It reminds him of Ros.

Nuzzling at Theon’s cheek, Jon begins to unfasten his cloak, apparently tired of banter. Theon lets his gaze slip past Jon’s shoulder, over the whitewashed houses and pitched gable roofs down to the harbour where the ships bob at their moorings. Further, even, where the waves break against the Seal Rock and gulls call from their nests, where the horizon hems in the sky.

As Jon pulls his wolfskin cloak off his shoulders, more sand rains down onto musty wooden floorboards and gathers at Theon’s feet. 

Jon stops, blinking down at the mess, and Theon chuckles.

“Aye, don’t worry on that so much,” he says, “it suits you.”

“The sand?” Jon asks, scowling.

Theon laughs again. “Mm,” he answers, “the sea.”

Theon turns his nose into the side of Jon's face, bristled by the dark stubble growing on his chin. Strong arms hold him still, stronger than he can wrest against like this. Jon is not a boy anymore, not the dour little complainer who had sneered at Theon with envy and mistrust, not the frightened boy who'd sought comfort from thunderstorms, but a man grown, powerful and resolute. A man of stature and command. Like his father.

That thought runs a hot lance through Theon’s body, even if it’s sick. But what of it? Who is there to stand in judgment of him anymore? That sort of man, Theon does not mind allowing to have him.

“Jon,” he purrs against his jaw, “Jon, do you — do you remember our first night at the inn in winter town?”

Jon freezes against him, breath hitching. He remembers. He knows — he must — what Theon is about to ask.

“Please,” Theon whispers, no shame in the word as their once was, “I want it again. Now.”

For a moment, there’s no response and Theon worries that perhaps he’s asked too much of him. But then Jon takes a shuddering breath and nods, dark ringlets brushing soft over Theon’s jaw.

“Al — alright.”

Though it doesn’t unleash a surge of domination that Theon had hoped. Jon is still reserved about that, at least. Too ashamed, perhaps, to act as he had their first night at the inn. Dominant, forceful, almost cruel. Cruel, had Theon not enjoyed it so much. But the way the pulse in Jon’s throat skips doesn’t escape Theon’s notice. Perhaps he’s reluctant, but Theon can coax him, as he often does.

“Do you remember it? How it felt?” Theon asks curiously. “Tell me.”

For a moment, Jon says nothing. His voice is soft when he asks, “Which part?”

Grinning, Theon unfastens the clasps of his doublet and shrugs it off, letting it slip and land heavy on the floor. 

“The things you said that night,” Theon answers finally, voice breathy, “do you remember? The way you — you claimed me.”

Jon’s breath shivers, and Theon feels a thrill of victory as he pulls his linen shift over his head. Jon swallows thickly at the sight. Theon’s heart is thrumming light and quick in his bare chest, excitement making him lightheaded. 

“What did it feel like,” Theon urges pulling the laces on his pants free, letting them hang loose, “to have me that way? A way no one else has ever — ever touched me?”

Fingers nest again in Theon’s hair. For a moment they’re tender and uncertain, but before Theon can encourage further, Jon’s hand clenches and jerks his head back, hard enough that Theon gasps. 

“Different,” Jon answers, his voice still a soft whisper in the quiet of the room. “You were — so different.” His eyes are darkening, the corners of his mouth turned down, serious. The nervousness is bleeding out of him now, as he remembers it.

“And did you like it?” Theon presses.

“Yes.”

Innocuous, Theon starts, “Do you want —” 

“Beg me.”

In an instant, Jon’s voice has turned hard as steel, low and verging on a growl, and it cuts through Theon’s words like a knife through fresh butter. Theon blinks, startled, and his cock twitches in his breeches. He doesn’t say anything, but Jon repeats himself anyway, frank and loud.

“Beg for what you want, Greyjoy. Beg me for it. I want to — I want to hear you say it.”

Theon’s vision blurs a little, his head spinning with an eager sort of fog, his mouth going slack in a sigh. It makes his skin burn hot. 

“Fuck me,” he says finally, his voice hoarse. It feels good to say, and he lets his mouth run. “Jon, have me as a woman, as a saltwife. I want you to fuck me, please —”

Pain sears through Theon’s scalp as Jon rips him forward by his hair, standing him, slamming him down onto his elbows over the open windowsill, folded over at his waist. Theon gasps before he even feels Jon’s fingers rip his breeches down over his ass. Jon’s gloved hands come to rest at his naked hip, sturdy and warm, and Theon drops his head onto his arms with a groan. Jon’s thumbs dig into the base of his spine, rubbing circles into the small of his back. Theon strains and arches against the hold, compelled to be still by such little force. Attentive, he remains dutifully still, awaiting instruction. One of Jon’s hands glides deliberately up the line of Theon’s spine, thumb running over each vertebrae between his shoulders, his neck, up to the hair at the back of his head. Theon makes a small sound at the touch. Had he ever felt so scrutinized? Been toyed with so? Exposed, eager, completely bare with his clothing pooled at his ankles even as Jon has only removed his own cloak. Even Theon hasn’t had Jon this way since the brothel, bent over and seized like a stolen war prize. Jon is too tender for it, and always desperate to look Theon in the eye. It sparks something, for Theon to be this way now. Thrilling, almost, to know that Jon wants differently, when he takes control. And really, he’s a natural at it.

Humiliation twists hot with desire. Arching into Jon’s touch, Theon rises on his elbows, lifts his head from his forearms. The view of the city below sprawls before him. The crowded docks, a crisscross forest of ship masts and furled sails, the waves swirling and heaving onto the shore below. Theon’s breath seizes in his chest. This is more than his home, he realizes. It’s where he belongs. It’s beautiful, glittering in the evening sun, and his heart is thundering heavy against his ribs, and makes him loose and pliant. He belongs here. Not just at the sea, but at Jon’s mercy, splayed out for him. Jon’s satisfaction is what he aims for. He owes him that much.

Jon’s touch pulls away, and Theon turns his head to watch Jon pull his gloves from his hands. When he notices Theon looking, their eyes lock. Jon says nothing, but Theon feels abruptly as if he’s doing something he shouldn’t, and turns his head back to the window.

It twists something in Theon’s gut, not to see him. To only feel him at his back, hear his breathing. When Theon’s eyes are trained away, Jon presses a kiss to the base of his spine. It feels like a reward, somehow, for turning away. It makes Theon’s chest feel loose, his head swim. Jon’s touch is delicate, for a moment. Teasing. Barely a brush of fingers along Theon’s ribs, his spine.

The thumming of his body is exquisite when Jon pushes a slick finger inside him. His body aches from riding but that only goads his excitement. He whimpers, twisting into Jon’s hand until he slides a second one into him, so much gentler than Theon would have expected, positioned this way. 

“Now you talk. Tell me, Theon,” Jon commands, “tell me how it feels. You do love the sound of your own voice. What does it feel like when I’m inside of you?”

He’d never realized before the intensity of such a question. He doesn’t take his eyes from the ocean below, the constant surging water, his breathing shallow and trembling. He’s not sure he has words for how this feels.

“Good, Jon,” Theon whimpers, when he can think of no better way to say it, “it’s — it’s so good. I want… I want it…”

“Aye,” Jon says, leaning close behind him. “I know that much. You always say that much. Tell me — tell me what you want.”

Jon’s fingers press into him, the slick pads of his fingers brushing a spot that makes Theon sag limp against the windowsill, melts all his shame to nothing.

“More,” he answers, lashes fluttering as he struggles to keep his eyes on the horizon. “I want more, want you to fuck me, please.” Jon crooks his fingers, almost curiously, and Theon whines as it sparks along his spine. “Yes — _yes_... More, Jon, please…”

Another finger slides into him, and Theon squirms against his hand. He feels it burning from one end of his spine to the other, blurring like hot steam in his head. Jon has stopped speaking, the only sound of him his shaking breaths just above Theon’s head. 

“Please, Jon — please, your cock, I want — I want…”

“Be patient,” Jon snaps, and Theon’s shoulders sag. “You’ll get it soon enough. First, I asked you a question and you have denied me an answer. I want to hear how it feels.”

Theon whines, pitiful, until Jon’s fingers move deeper inside him. Pleasure sparks along him so intense it almost feels like pain, and Theon loses sight of the waves for a moment as his eyes roll back. 

“Perfect,” falls from his mouth, and Jon’s lips touch light over Theon’s back.

“Tell me,” Jon insists. His hand moves faster, and Theon whimpers at the stretch pulling him open. “How does this feel, on your hands and knees for me? A prince begging to be fucked by a bastard?”

“No — no, not a prince,” Theon answers, shaking his head as colour starts to bleed from his vision, “not a prince, not any longer. Not a bastard. You said so,” He can hear the waves just over their breathing if he tries, crashing rhythmically against the sand. “Just — just yours. And you’re — mine.”

Jon’s hand stills. Theon’s breath hitches in his lungs. It can’t stop. He can’t bear to be teased now. He needs more. Keening, Theon shifts back against Jon’s hand, fucking himself against his fingers. The sensation is different, from being on his back. He feels disjointed, untethered to himself as he watches the waves below. Jon doesn’t say anything, and Theon can’t tell how long they stay in silence. His body starts to drag listless against the heady burn of Jon stretching him, solid and unmoving as Theon’s knees go weak from his own efforts, until he drops heavy onto the windowsill. 

“Jon,” he begs, his voice feels too loud for the room, even as it barely cracks above a whisper. His hips still move, languid by now. He needs Jon to move. “Please, Jon…”

The pressure releases and slips away in an instant, and Theon crumples against the window at the sudden emptiness. He whines, long and desperate, and turns to see Jon bowed over him, grey eyes burning. A hand latches around his throat and pulls him upward, holding him steady against the window. Theon twists in Jon’s grip, needy, and Jon holds him still.

“You’ve turned into such a mewling slut,” Jon hisses, his voice sharp. The insult is hot in Theon’s blood. His eyes roll back, and for a moment his view of the ocean greys to nothing. “It’s a miracle you’re ever satisfied.”

Mindlessly, Theon nods. Jon curls over him, heat radiating as his chest presses into Theon’s back. His breath burns against Theon’s neck like woodsmoke. The hand at Theon’s throat moves to knot in his hair, tugging lightly, keeping his focus on the view outside.

“Jon — please…”

Jon likes it when he begs. Theon wants to beg. But his voice fails him, fading into a quiet moan, and Jon presses a kiss to his throat. The anticipation blurs his senses, and all he can do is groan as Jon’s cock breeches him in a slow, smooth drag. Theon screams, knees weak against the wall as he clings helplessly to the windowsill. Jon thrusts into him strong enough that Theon crashes hard against the wall. His vision rolls over white as he slumps forward, mouth running. He’s not sure what he says. Perhaps it’s nothing at all. Theon’s bones feel lighter, too light to keep him sturdy in his skin. The ocean is only a sound, now. A smell. He can’t see anything, any longer.

“Is this what you want, Theon?” Jon asks, voice breathy. Theon nods before he knows what Jon is asking. This is everything he wants. “To be fucked like a whore by your bastard lover? Facing the sea —”

“Gods yes,” Theon babbles helplessly, knuckles white against the edge of the window as he struggles to hold himself up, “yes, Jon, please — your — your whore…”

There’s a shuddering gasp above him, and fingernails dig hard into his scalp.

“The runaway prince, slutted his way through half the North, and now here you are, turned to a needy pet by a bastard cock,” Jon hisses in his ear, “I’ve ruined you, haven’t I?”

The words trip in Theon’s memory. Entranced, he nods, managing a groan. Jon holds him still, pounding into him hard enough that the wood creaks under Theon’s hands. Jon hasn’t touched him, but his own cock strains between his legs.

“Yes,” Theon answers finally, breathless. “Your — ruined… ruined whore.”

“ _Gods_ yes,” Jon growls against his throat, “My — _mine._ ”

It feels so good, hearing him say it. It turns his nerves alive. Theon nods. “Yours,” he repeats, breath short. “Just — just yours.”

Is this how it felt, Theon wonders, when he’d taken Jon at the inn at the fork? He’d seemed then so dizzy and helpless, mindless chatter spilling from his mouth as Theon fucked him. It turns Theon's own blood molten, the idea of being taken, claimed. He wishes every soul in White Harbour could hear him being fucked as a bride.

“Jon,” Theon purrs, his grip on the window pane slipping, his elbows straining to hold his body forward. “Gods, Jon, please — please claim me.”

A hand knots hard in Theon’s hair and rips his head back, far enough that Theon’s chin juts toward the window.

“I already have,” Jon hisses. “Tamed you like a wild dog. All you want is me, now, isn’t that right?”

Theon recognizes those words, as well. It turns him pliant, soft. He’s never wanted to please another so intensely, so suddenly. His knees shake, and he nods, an effort against Jon’s fist in his hair. “Yes, Jon. Only — only you.”

“Only me.”

The fog that engulfs Theon then is calm, peaceful, not the burning need for release that he’s used to. His body goes slack, moving in time with Jon’s hips, and everything around them fades to nothing, Jon’s face the only thing he sees with any clarity. He’s never felt this before, his body untethered, floating. He wants for nothing, only for it not to stop.

His own release is meaningless, unimportant. He has no want to strive for it now, only for Jon, only ever for Jon.

“Please claim me,” Theon whispers, his voice raw. His words seem to fall from his mouth too slowly, as if time has frozen around them. “Please, I want — only yours, Jon, please.”

Jon jerks his head to the side, holding his throat prone. Theon whimpers at the beat of time where nothing seems to move at all, and then Jon’s teeth sink hard into his throat, so hard Theon feels the skin give and tear under his jaws. The cool peace fades away, clawing need replacing it again, and Theon screams, turned helpless, reaching back to find purchase in Jon’s hair.

“ _Jon —_ ” Theon’s voice croaks under the pressure, and Jon’s grip only tightens. Theon feels seed filling him, running slick down his legs. Jon’s body moves mindlessly, chasing the feeling, and Theon’s body melts underneath him.

“Jon,” he whispers again, feeling Jon pumping into him with his final thrusts, turning Theon to water. He may not even hear him, may not even realize. Jon’s cock only pushes his release further into Theon’s body, hot and slick and desperate, and Theon feels his body unwind at the pressure of it. Held down and kept still as a warrior takes a saltwife as he fills her with bastard sons.

His own release wrings from him before Jon has even come back to himself, and Theon’s body falls limp against the windowsill. He feels his own seed hot on his thighs, and can’t recall even being touched. His head spins, body heavy on his bones and vision sparking white against the setting sun. He whines again, helpless, “Jon…”

With a blink, he’s moved. Though Theon is sure he was not the one to sit himself on the worn wooden floor of the inn. Jon is curled tight in his lap, head tucked against Theon’s shoulder. His breathing is heavy and uneven, and Theon feels tears against his neck. It’s hard to tell if they’re his own or Jon’s, until he feels Jon shiver against his chest, hiccuping against a sob.

“Jon?” 

Body going tense, Jon doesn’t look at him, face buried in his chest. 

Theon smirks, lifting his hand to run his fingers through Jon’s curls. His body moves oddly, delayed. It’s effort, to command his limbs. “Jon, don’t be so shy, look at me.”

“No.”

Giddy with the aftershock of it, Theon throws his head back to laugh, feeling the dull throb in his neck as he does. “You’d deny me? After all that?”

“No,” Jon repeats with a dismal tone, “I don’t mean to.”

“Look at me, then, Jon. Let me see you.”

With a shivering sigh, Jon heaves himself up from Theon to meet his gaze. The fire is gone from his eyes, as if never there at all. Instead they’re only red-rimmed with tears, searching Theon’s eyes. 

“Don’t tease me,” Jon says suddenly, “For the things I said. I couldn’t bear it now.”

Theon tilts his head, throat searing against the movement. “Tease you?”

“They were foolish things, I know. Cruel. I hadn’t — I wasn’t thinking.”

“No?” Theon chuckles. His body still feels loose — limp — neck burning at every twitch. It’s never felt so good just to be in his skin. He grins down at Jon. “Nor was I, if I’m to be quite honest.”

Jon doesn’t smile. He’s such a serious thing. Theon leans forward and presses a kiss to his jaw. 

“Come now, Jon. You said you liked how different I am, when you take me. Is it so hard to believe I like the same of you?”

Swallowing, Jon frowns. “I…” He shakes his head. “You were trembling, after. Not speaking. I thought I’d — I thought I’d hurt you.”

A twinge of embarrassment tickles at Theon’s nape. He wonders how long the two of them had sat like this before Jon heard him speak. He tries to remember, but all he can recall is blind peace and the faint sound of the ocean. He shakes his head, cupping Jon’s cheek. 

“No, Jon. You could never hurt me.”

When Jon kisses his neck, Theon feels it like a sting against the mark bitten into him. “You’re bleeding.”

“It's alright.”

Silence, for a moment. Jon pulls away just barely, only enough to place cool fingers against the bite on Theon’s throat. “You’d gone so — so quiet. I thought I’d done something… wrong.”

Theon shakes his head, heart skipping in his chest. He’d never felt that before, so much at once, overtaking him. “It was — it was different,” Theon admits softly. “Different than the last time. But I…” 

To simply say he enjoyed it is not enough. He lacks the words for what he feels now, but he must say something. He can’t let Jon despair, certainly not over this.

Resolute, Theon says firmly, “Jon, look at me.”

Whimpering, Jon shakes his head, but does as he’s told, regardless. It’s unnerving, really, how timid Jon can still seem at times. Despite it all. Despite how they bicker and how stubborn he can be. Theon used to tease what a sullen face he had, but he wonders if Jon will ever truly inherit the grim look of his father; the hard brow and bleak frown. Jon had always been a solemn child, but his features have always been too soft and youthful to carry the true bleak northern severity in them. 

Jon’s grey eyes search him, expectant and puzzled. 

“I love you,” Theon tells him at last. “You know that, I’m certain, but I never did say it before.”

He has nothing to add to it, though he itches the moment the words are out of his mouth to belittle them in some way — to take them back, to tease Jon for needing to hear them, perhaps. Jon’s eyes widen as the words settle between them. The way his mouth falls open, Theon wonders if perhaps he’s forgotten how to speak.

When Jon does react, it’s only to pull Theon into a kiss, warm and harsh, as if needing to prove something. Theon smirks against his mouth, but doesn’t pull away. 

When Jon pulls back, Theon cannot contain a chuckle. He means it to tease Jon, but the laugh doesn’t leave him with any sort of edge. It bubbles out of him light and fragile, and Jon only grins back at him — clearly not feeling teased at all.

“Will you say it again?” Jon asks finally, his voice barely a whisper.

Theon snorts, ignoring the rush of nerves that make his stomach feel too light. “You’re such a girl about it.”

“Please, Theon,” Jon murmurs, pressing another kiss blindly against the corner of his mouth, “say it again.”

It’s always been impossible to deny Jon anything.

“I love you,” Theon repeats carefully, and Jon shivers in his arms, pressing kisses down his throat, over the tingling bite.

“Again.”

“Gods, why? Have you gone deaf?”

Jon, astonishingly, giggles. “No,” he says, “but I think perhaps I’ve gone mad, hearing you say such things.”

“Oh, don’t be an ass,” Theon teases, flipping Jon onto his back, his chest going light from his little squeak of surprise as he hits the musty floor. “You’ve known it for some time.”

But Theon knows how it goes, with secrets, knows perhaps as well as Jon. If they are so secret, sometimes they stop seeming real at all. Unspoken, unacknowledged, they are only dreamed, or imagined. The misreadings of a foolish child allowing themselves childish indulgence. A kiss under a snowy tree. A night huddled together against thunder. If you can’t talk about it later, if you must pretend it did not happen, did it really happen at all?

At Winterfell, he and Jon had both been living secrets, after a fashion. Open secrets, plain secrets, not to be brought up or scrutinized in polite company. But the pretending did not change anything; it did not change what they were. Jon was a bastard and Theon was a captive, whether anyone brought it up or not. Whether it was shouted and jeered in their faces or snickered quietly behind folded hands, they both knew it, every day, from sunrise until sunset, that they were unmentionable, unwanted. 

Part of Theon had revelled and thrived in that plausible deniability. In boyhood, he had learned very quickly that he might get away with much and no one short of Lord Stark himself would sanction him. He was not worth their involvement, and so he exploited every freedom, spit in the face of their judgement, their lack of care. 

But despite all his feckless rebellion, Winterfell had shaped him into a man. It had invaded his defenses, little by little, like moss creeping over a stone. It happened while he thought he was getting away with it, gleefully thought he was outsmarting them all, the humourless Northerners. But they all knew his posturing for false. How foolish he was. They would all laugh if they saw him now.

But not Jon, never Jon. He knew that hurt too well, and yes, Theon loved him for that.

“I’ve chosen you, Jon Snow,” he says at last, decided on this sentimentality. “I’ve chosen you above all, it seems. Perhaps it was an unwise choice but it was mine, and I claim it. As I claim you.”

He stops, swallows hard. Looks away from Jon’s face. Such declarations of the heart are mortifying.

“Without you, I would not have made it,” says Theon. “I would have despaired, I know it now, seeing the journey from the other side. I would have died, or— or gone back. I am not the sort of man I thought I was. Not the sort who can face hardship alone.”

That, above it all, is perhaps his greatest shame. The most disgraceful to admit, even now, even to Jon. But it is true. Theon had once thought himself a brave man, a resilient man. Had once thought the world a game that could be mastered with ease. It is to his great horror that he finds himself humbled by the lie of it.

“A man,” he continues, “should always keep his word. Your father taught me that. It was his greatest lesson to me. And I want to keep my word to you, Jon. So I must make my promises carefully, if they are to be kept. I cannot promise you the great and wondrous things that I thought I might, once. I cannot promise you lands and titles, nor riches and comfort. For the time being, I cannot even promise your safety. Or that I will never lie to you, or fight with you, or anger you. My own faults I know too well to assure you that. But this, at least, it is safe to swear to you: I will choose you, Jon Snow. On this day, and the next, until my days are done, or until you send me away. I have chosen you against everything else, and I will not forsake that, Jon. Not ever.”

His voice is a murmur by the end, his chin tucked to his chest like a chastized child. Theon can just imagine Jon’s moonstruck face. The boy who fawns over old legends, who dreamed himself as one day becoming Lord Commander of the noble Night’s Watch, hearing such half-baked, faltering sentimentalities from Theon Greyjoy surely has seized his little heart.

Still, even now, in this tiny, dim inn room, with all the knowledge that he has of Jon’s tenderness, Theon worries that Jon will scoff. He doubts he ever won’t.

Fingers slip under Theon’s chin, and before he can even look, Jon has him locked in one of his hungry kisses. The sort that make Theon’s heart flutter like a virgin. Jon is so shameless in what he wants, more shameless than Theon could ever hope to be.

“I choose you as well,” murmurs Jon against his mouth, fingers light against the mark still throbbing on his neck. “this day, and the next. Wherever we go, whatever we face, I will choose you. Because I — I love you just the same, you must know. With all of my heart.”

All Theon can see are black curls, glossy like a crow’s wing. He closes his eyes against the surge of affection, blind adoration that he feels just by holding Jon close. The weight of it makes him dizzy. It takes a moment for Theon to steady himself.

“Aye,” Theon mutters, trying his best to speak with clarity, to sound unshaken, “well, you’re damn fool.”

Jon laughs, gentle and light, and Theon’s body goes warm. 

“Mayhaps,” Jon says, trembling fingers running again over the stinging bite at Theon’s throat. “but a fool you love. Does that make you any better?”

Hearing Jon say it feels different, somehow, than when the words left Theon’s mouth, or even Jon’s own silly enamored declaration. Theon had felt what he’d said for some time, perhaps longer than he’d even truly realized. But as Jon recites it back, the words are given weight — heavy as gold coming from his mouth. It’s different, now that Jon knows. Real.

“No,” Theon answers finally, bowing to kiss the breath from Jon’s smiling face, “I’m no better at all.”


	24. Robb [Epilogue]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE!!! lmao

The caravan reaches Winterfell shortly after daybreak, twenty wagons and pack mules bringing wares of foreign wines, gems, and silks. Lord Stark is uninterested in spending on such luxuries, but Lady Catelyn and her eldest Sansa come to peruse the merchants’ offerings and take a liking to many of the rich fabrics for weaving and sewing. No longer under guard, Robb is allowed to accompany his sister and mother and their ladies to see the caravan outside the castle walls, watches as young Sansa mills about, dazzled by the colours, and out of the corner of his eye notices the man leaving his wares to come to his side.

The man has rich, dark skin and a large gold ring in his ear, and his smile is wide and white when he says, “You are the prince here, yes? Letter just for you, little lordling. From across the sea. Two gold.”

Robb’s eyes widen, and he nods. He looks around nervously, but no one else is around except a distracted scullery maid who pays the two of them no mind. Digging hastily in his purse, he places two dragons in the man’s weathered hand, and the man brandishes a thick roll of parchment from a pouch at his hip.

“Thank you,” Robb tells the man as he takes it, handing him a third gold dragon to show how grateful he is. The man’s uncommonly blue eyes go wide, and he smiles again.

“Of course, lordling,” he says, pocketing his fortune. “If you will have words to send back along at the return journey, I will send it down the line. Our caravan leaves your castle three days hence. I must have it by then.”

Robb nods again, heart thudding. He’ll be sure to write something before then. He stuffs the parchment in his doublet to hide it, racing to his chambers and locking the door behind him. His hands tremble as he pulls the seal apart, and two long rolls of parchment unfurl onto his desk. Grinning, Robb picks up the one in Theon’s handwriting first. It’s much shorter.

_Robb,_

_I hope this letter finds you as well as it finds us. We’re safe, and gods, so warm — more than I can say for the likes of you and your lot, I reckon._

_I do hope your lord father has forgiven you by now. I know it’s too much to ask that he forgive me as well, but I do wish him to know I am sorry. Tell little Rickon that I miss telling him stories. Tell Arya that Jon is still heartbroken to have left her. Is she still angry with him? I cannot imagine her any less stubborn than he is, so I reckon she is. Perhaps just lie and tell him she is not. It would help him._

_I will not share where we have made a home, not yet, but it is beautiful here, and close to the sea. I was worried Jon would not care for the salt and sand, but he’s taken to it better than I’d ever hoped he would. Perhaps he would have made it on those damned islands of mine, after all._

_~~We may learn for sure one day whether~~ _

_I’d be dead without you, Stark. I know that now. And dead still without your brother at my side. All that I’d said then, when we left — all that I’d said about never making it out of the North with him tagging along. It’s almost a laugh, now. I know it was death to part with him, but I will never be able to thank you enough for trusting him to me. I promise I’ve made as honest a lady of him as I am capable. And I shall die before I allow any harm to come to him._

_We both miss you dearly, and the rest of your family. It seems a lifetime since the last time we’ve exchanged words. So much has happened, though I’m sure Jon detailed it all in his letter to you. He wrote such a long one. I can only hope he isn’t foolish enough to have mentioned any details that shall get us killed. He insisted I not read it before sending it._

_He’s asleep as I’m writing you. We’ve taken up in a tavern for the night and both drank our fill in celebration, but now he’s sprawled out over the bed and left no room for me._

_Returning to you is still our aim, I want you to know that for certain. We will see each other again, I swear it to you as well as anything I’ve sworn to you or your idiot lovesick brother before. But until that day, I want you to know something else for certain, as well, want you to know it for the rest of your days. It was worth it, Robb. All of it was. Everything we’ve been through, everything you’ve done for us. I will never be able to express my gratitude for all of it, but I can at least tell you as much._

_I love you as well, Stark. My brother, now and always. Be well, be safe, and do not forget us._

_Theon_

Eyes welling with tears, Robb reaches up to wipe them away before they smear the ink of the letter. Rolling it up tight, Robb holds it close to his chest. A weight he’d carried with him the past four months falls away from his shoulders, and he smiles, letting out a shuddering breath.

It _was_ worth it, he decides as his heart slows to a calm thrum in his chest. His father’s anger of the past few months, until letter from the king arrived that a missing Greyjoy with no house to claim feilty at his side mattered as little as one left shivering alone at the Wall. The islands were too busy infighting to be of any matter to the king as of now, and Theon — finally, gratefully — was free.

Sliding a broken wood panel back from the bottom of his desk, Robb slides Theon’s letter inside. He hopes there is room enough in the hidden space to hold all the letters he’ll receive before it is safe for their return. With a loud, relieved sigh, he reaches for Jon’s letter, at least three times as long as Theon’s, his usually neat handwriting sloped and slanted in excitement. Before even reading it, he knows for sure.

It was worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> title from "How Do These Hearts Unfold" by Raised By Swans


End file.
